Fragments
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: Fragmented glimpses into fragmented lives. A collection of ficlets, short stories, and one-shots. -Updated! "It's not much fun, is it? Being stuffed inside these blasted boxes all of the time." SebaCiel.-
1. Dinner Games xxx General

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Notes on this Collection: **So this collection is, essentially, a bunch of mini-fics and ficlets that I wrote and posted on livejournal for one reason or another, but never published here because I didn't feel they were long/good enough to stand alone as one-shots. (There are actually a few that I _did_ post as one-shots that, looking back, I wish I'd saved to put in this collection. "Oh My," for instance. But oh well.)

So yeah. That being the case, these aren't my best pieces work. Still, they amused me for one reason or another, or else I wouldn't have posted them at all. X3 I hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note: **These two "prequels" to the first episode of the anime were originally written as writing samples for an RP I was hoping to join. Those of you who RP can see that I clearly had no idea what I was doing. XD; But I still like these as ficlets.

**XXX**

**Dinner Games**

**XXX**

**I.**

He sat quietly at his desk, fingers steepled, left leg crossed loosely over his right. There was a lengthy report splayed over the mahogany tabletop, but he no longer seemed to be reading it; rather, his visible eye had settled on some invisible point in the distance, half-narrowed in evident disgust.

It was a familiar story, at this point: conmen worming their way into his factories, vying for his favor, kissing up until they'd managed to climb the corporate ladder—their efforts spurred by the hopes that they might manage to trick a spoiled child out of his millions. They were a stupid, oafish bunch: never thinking up new tactics, never able to veil their true colors… never intelligent enough to wonder why they'd never heard back from their brethren, once they'd entered the Phantomhive estate. In all aspects, it was as familiar of a predicament as it was tedious; Ciel allowed himself a single, half-silent sigh, lamenting over the upcoming loss of so much free time. But even as the exasperated sound escaped his pretty lips, he could feel a small smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. It had been quite a while since they'd last had a guest for supper (take _that_ as you will); they were certainly due for some company.

"Sebastian," the boy said quietly, not bothering with the summoning bell; his butler would hear him no matter where he was in the house, and appear within moments. He was probably already listening in the shadows. "Begin the preparations for an honored guest. The finest china, the best meat."

Here he paused, leered; his blue eye shone like a sapphire, alight with sardonic laughter and cruel amusement. "Oh. Do be sure to take out my favorite board game while you're at it," he added, leaning back in his gilded chair with an easy hum. "The rules of decorum dictate that we provide him with some entertainment. And it has been so long since I've enjoyed a good game…"

**II.**

My favorite part of the evening is the scream. It always comes, as inevitable as sunrise or darkness— it's just a matter of when, and how. Every idiot is different, after all; accordingly, so is every scream. But they're each a pleasure, in their own right.

Damian is the guest tonight. Italian. Middle age. Has the look of a beloved uncle, and tries to patronize his way through the evening. As he oozes oily words and condescending complements, I mentally compile my knowledge of his character and use it to predict when I'll hear his own unique screech. Evening, is my bet. After Sebastian has let him loose upon the grounds. Perhaps as he's stumbling away from whatever torture the demon has concocted for him. Yes, that sounds about right…

I've long-since fashioned my prediction-making into a game in-and-of itself; I've grown quite good at it over the years, though it has been quite some time since I was last able to practice. Back when the Phantom company first returned to the scene, it felt as if we had a 'special guest' over every night. Now a visitor like Damian is a treat indeed; I find myself waiting, almost impatiently, for the shriek that my butler has promised. My annoyance only grows as time presses on: as we play a board game, as we munch through dinner, as he blathers on and on about new products and fake factories and tries to force-feed me blatant lies. I half-listen, face blank, and grace him with the occasional nod. But in my mind, I am already eagerly anticipating the moment he comprehends the grave he's dug for himself—the instant he understands the line that he's crossed—the second that he realizes that Ciel Phantomhive is not one to be trifled with.

And then he will scream. And then I will laugh.

I will laugh because he will sound ridiculous. I will laugh because he'll have gotten what he deserved. I will laugh because I will think of the future—think of the day when my true enemies are the ones screaming, screeching, and writhing on the ground, begging for forgiveness.

Only a few more minutes now…

I can hardly wait.


	2. Achilles Heels xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** Oh sure, just rub it in… *pouts*

**Author's Note:** This was written a few months ago for the LJ community, "Kuroshi Contest," which is a bi-weekly (or monthly, at this point) Kuroshitsuji fanfiction contest. The theme had been "Achilles heel." (I didn't actually win that week, but I was awarded the Mod Nomination. Yea! :D)

**Warnings:** CRACK. And so much of it… With some SebastianxCiel flavorings.

**XXX**

**Achilles Heels**

**XXX**

There was no denying, of course, that Sebastian was beautiful. Even in his most objectionable, annoyed, furious, or angsty moods, Ciel could never refute that—could never keep himself from noticing his butler's forever unblemished skin; his long, well-proportioned limbs; the way his hair always fell exactly into place. It was actually rather irritating, how absolutely perfect he was. Irritating, as well as off-putting: as no human was _truly_ perfect, Sebastian's idealized appearance almost made him seem _more_ otherworldly than he really was. Which was certainly a feat.

The boy blanched a bit as that last word fluttered through his mind, even if it wasn't technically…

_No, no, stop thinking about it!_

"Young master?"

Said specimen of perfection paused in his current doings, momentarily distracted from his assigned task—trailing his heated tongue up and down the pallid expanse of Ciel's abdomen. The boy started; his demon had been watching him from behind the curtain of his black-silk fringes. His ruby eyes— which had, moments ago, been half-hidden by lowered, clock-spring lashes— suddenly opened, as his expression morphed from one of feral lust to polite bewilderment. "Young master, you seem distracted. I do hope I am not _boring_ you?"

_Boring?_ Ciel's thin lips turned downward, a faint frown painting his face. That wasn't it… was it? In his conscious mind, he wanted to say no, it wasn't that he was _bored_—it was that Sebastian was just so utterly _inhuman_, this whole situation was somewhat unsettling. As such, it would have felt more natural to do this with him sans his butler's guise… Or so Ciel would've liked to tell himself.

But even he knew that was a lie. Or, more accurately, an excuse. Perhaps "boring" _was_ a better word for it. Because after all he'd seen, this costume of ebony fabric and white kid gloves seemed almost… mundane. Disgustingly so. He didn't want to be coddled by his servant—he wanted… he wanted…

"Sebastian," the young Earl whispered, feeling his sacrificed eye flame as he inadvertently tapped into its dark power, "this is an order. Don't ever fuck me as a butler again."

…well, that was out-of-the-blue. Understandably surprised, Sebastian blinked, taken aback. "Young mas—?"

"Rather," Ciel continued— and _no, _he _wasn't_ blushing, or averting his eyes, or inwardly drooling at the thought of what was to come— "from now on, you are only ever allowed to do things like that with me in your _true_ form."

"My—?" The demon faltered uncharacteristically. And for a moment, he seemed oddly mortal: staring unblinkingly at his increasingly pink master, as if trying to hash out the answer to two and two. But eventually, the numbers made 'four' in his mind—a creeping smirk appeared on Sebastian's face as it all clicked together, and _oh_, he found the answer so very amusing…

"Very well, my lord," Sebastian purred, his words barely audible over the sound of rushing feathers; black tendrils of smoke began coiling around the devil, melting away his butlery attire. In its place, midnight leather shone: tight and sleek and shining and enveloping every inch of the demon's scintillating body. And Ciel's excited eyes followed the progress of the magical material, watching as it curled around Sebastian's torso, then his hips, then his legs, and then—

_Yes_.

The count felt his small face flame as his libido (and lower body) immediately sprang to life. It was such a visual aphrodisiac; thus enthused, Ciel tangled keen fingers through his devil's hair—yanking Sebastian down into an eager make-out session.

God _dammit, _those were some sexy boots!

**XXX**


	3. A Letter to Madam Red xxx General

**Disclaimer: **Sick of saying it…

**Author's Note: **Written for my creative writing class. The assignment was to take a character "we've worked with before" and write a letter from their PoV, that tells us a bit about them as a person.

**XXX**

_London, 1889_

Madam Red,

Enclosed in this envelope you will find a list of names. Rather, you will find a list of potential suspects— groups or persons unknown whom Her Majesty the Queen currently suspects of partaking in underground dealings; more specifically: unwarranted medical experimentation. As a doctor yourself, I deemed it prudent to ask you, first and foremost, if you have ever made contact with any of these men. If serendipity has made this so, I would further ask you to provide me with any crucial bits of background information that you possess, so that I might begin my own investigation into these ghastly matters.

I would, of course, have preferred not to ask this of you, and instead left this tedious charge to my butler, Sebastian, but he has been briefly detained by other, more pressing matters for Queen Victoria. As for Lau, any medication that does not deal directly in opiates seems to be outside of his sphere of knowledge (making him, as always, virtually useless); I have already contacted Undertaker, but his specialty lies _in_ the dead, not those whose experiments leave Londoners _for_ dead. It goes without saying that Scotland Yard would prove no help at all— if they had any idea what they were doing, Her Majesty would have no need for the Phantomhive family in the first place.

I am certain that you understand, Madam Red, that this matter is one of the utmost importance. As this is the case, you have my explicit permission to come by the manor unannounced, provided that you have managed to obtain the requested information. (However, this invitation does _not _extend to your butler, Grell. Both Sebastian and I would very much prefer it if you left him at home; my maid Maylene does a fine job shattering the Royal Doulton and Wedgewood without that klutz's help.)

Wishing my dearest aunt nothing but the best,  
Ciel Phantomhive


	4. Two to Tango xxx SebaCiel, LauGrell

**Disclaimer: **No means no!

**Author's Note: **Written for my LJ friend, Neocloud9, who wished for a fic to explain the canon, anime-illustration of butler (AKA 'phail') Grell and Lau dancing together.

**Warnings: **SebaxCiel, Phail!GrellxLau. Inspired by the above-mentioned picture. Takes place during Ciel's training to be a Trap. Written and edited within the span of an hour, just to be done with it.

**XXX**

**Two to Tango**

**XXX**

_STOMP. _"…and that is my foot, young master. As it was thirty seconds ago."

"Well, quit putting it beneath mine!"

A throat clears; a tiny cough, sounding both ginger and flustered, somehow manages to paint over the boy's frustrated snarl. "Uh… um… Lau-sama…?"

Languid amusement is its answer. "Hmmm?"

"Young master, this is what we call 'dancing.' Not 'tripping in time to music.'"

"_What_ music? All I hear is you bitching at me!"

Another _STOMP_. Another moment of hesitant wavering.

"Lau-sama, I… I, uh, don't think he's paying attention anymore…"

Perpetually lowered lashes flutter faintly, as if in confusion: the first, tentative wing-beats of a baby butterfly. "…who?"

"Even Cinderella, a lowly kitchen maid, knew how to dance, young master. What does that say about you?" A dry drawl, full of barely-contained sarcasm. Their argument is a metronome in itself.

"That I'm not a kitchen maid, perhaps? And that was just a stupid fairytale, you twat."

More embarrassment, more swift glances over his shoulder. "Ciel-sama. He's not paying attention anymore…"

The China man hums. "So it would seem. The dear butler _has_ always been quite good at stealing his attentions away… but why should that matter?"

_Stomp, stomp, STOMP. _Rapid twirling— trying to circle one another, but forgetting that their fingers are intertwined. "Perhaps it was, young master, but as we are here to turn you into the bell of a ball, I thought such a metaphor appropriate."

Sneering. Always attractive. "Does that make you my fairy, then?"

One smirk is countered by another. "I believe we already established that while working on your corset, young master."

Both servants are speaking at once. "W-well, we began dancing as a sort of… um, _example_ for Ciel-sama, so…"

A Cheshire smile, a kitten's purr. A pair of clasped hands tighten. "Did we?"

In reply, Grell turns as red as his mistress's hair. As red as Ciel's flaming cheeks.

Neither couple says anything more.

**XXX**


	5. Sweets xxx RachelUndertaker

**Disclaimer: **You've heard it all before.

**Author's Note: **For her birthday, LJ user Neocloud9 asked me for an UndertakerxRachel drabble. As if I didn't spoil her enough throughout the year, I decided to accept the challenge such a coupling presented. X3

**Warnings: **This is my first time writing for Undertaker, so I apologize if it sucks. XD; In other news, this is based off of the manga, where Undertaker was, apparently, an 'evil noble' and an associate of Vincent's.

**XXX**

**Sweets**

**XXX**

"Well, well, if it isn't Little Red Riding Hood…"

The gurgled giggle flutters through the shifting darkness, bouncing off of embalming jars and half-constructed skeletons. In the doorway, the festive figure pauses. A black leather glove peeps out from beneath the shadow of a flowing scarlet cloak, passing garlands of ornamental holly and minute golden bells on its way up to her hood. She needn't have bothered; only one woman ever comes to his shop alone.

"If I'm Little Red Riding Hood," Rachel teases, rearranging her mussed, blonde locks in the wake of her velvet drapery, "does that make you Grandma, or the Big Bad Wolf?"

The Undertaker grins, bowing her inside from his home in the gloom. "Who knows? But perhaps you'll find out if you venture within..." Long arms sweep majestically backwards, a welcoming gesture that puts a frown on his guest's porcelain face.

"Then perhaps I shouldn't."

A taunting leer. "Don't you wish to know?"

"They say that curiosity kills the cat," she retorts, even as she closes the heavy door behind her. A bell tinkles; neither notices. "Please realize that I have no such death-wish."

"Ah, then why journey to an establishment such as this in the first place?" Undertaker cackles amiably, gliding closer with a rustle of midnight-colored robes. Like the door, he jingles too— hips glinting with charms and tokens of the departed. Unlike the door, Rachel notices (savors) each tinny ring of these pseudo-bells. "Please, Lady Phantomhive, don't be shy! Wouldn't you at least like to try one of my new deluxe caskets? They're sinfully snuggly. I'd even allow you to take a quick 'cat-nap' inside of one. A test run, of sorts. I promise, you'll never experience a deeper, more soothing sleep…"

A bubbled chuckle; it starts high and ends low. And the young woman can feel each sliding note of the pleased melody: the musical resonance tingles beneath her skin, as if black-tipped nails were whispering down her arm. Then again, perhaps they really are…

"What if I'm not tired?" she inquires, her naive tone at odds with her devious leer. The obvious dissonance only serves to add further fuel to the fire; her glossy lips twist into an enchanting sort of 'v,'—all sharp edges and cloying sweetness.

The jingling has stopped.

The Undertaker returns her alluring simper with a sneer of his own: Cheshire-wide and trembling, a crumbling mask which barely contains his chortles. "There are ways to remedy that, my dear."

Thick lashes flutter, the same flaxen gold as her luxurious curls. "Such as…?"

"Chamomile tea, perhaps?"

Game over.

Rachel beams, head tipping in innocent happiness as the Undertaker's smile nearly splits his face in two. "That sounds lovely," she then decrees, lifting the woven basket that dangled from the crook of her arm. "And that reminds me, I brought you a Christmas present. It should go spectacularly with a warm drink."

"Oh?" The Undertaker guffaws conversationally as he hands the young woman a beaker of gently-steaming liquid, prepared earlier and set aside for her anticipated arrival. Rachel accepts the refreshment with a murmur of gratitude and immediately makes herself at home within the displayed and crushed-satin insides of a large, lacquered coffin, crossing her booted feet like a small child. "I am flattered to have been thought of, Lady Phantomhive. Is it Bourbon?"

The blonde laughs, with genuine affection, as she rearranges the linen napkins that cushion the contents of her wicker container. "Far more innocuous, I'm afraid," she apologizes, tipping the basket carefully forward so that he can scrutinize its innards. (He does so enjoy examining the insides of things, after all.) "I thought it would be nice to gift all of my husband's associates with a small token for the holidays, something more heartfelt than a store-bought trinket. So I made everyone their own batch of cookies."

"Hmmm?" Behind wispy bangs of silver, the taller man seems to cock an eyebrow. "Bone-shaped biscuits from the family of the Queen's guard dog? How delightful! I do find irony deliciously funny…"

"What? Oh, no!" The young woman's expression shifts from confusion to surprise to amusement, even as she rapidly shakes her head. Always energetic, that Rachel… "No, they're not bone-shaped because of the Phantomhive's title, silly! They're shaped like that because of _your_ job. You know, since you deal in the dead and the all that. You see?"

The Undertaker considers this, still snickering behind his sleeve. "Are you suggesting that I eat my pretty clients?"

Rachel's answer is a grin— another cantarella-flavored 'v.' "It wouldn't be the first time," she reminds, lightly resting her chin atop the handle of her basket. The gesture makes her look like a lovely doll; a china mannequin; a recently decapitated corpse: what with her wide blue eyes and vibrant red cloak, and the wavy, tempting curtain of her fair silk locks.

The Undertaker's eternal laughter gains a soft, husky edge. "Ah," he then purrs, sliding over to join his lover in the warmth of the open coffin. "But you're a _special_ case, my Lady."

**XXX**


	6. Bedtime Rituals xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Haha.

**Author's Note: **Inspired by chapter 39. I'll leave it to you to decide how.

**Dedication:** For Neocloud9, Ruby_Moon_1x2, and Theamazingfetus, all of whom shared (and added to) my vision. XD

**Amusing Side-Note: **In the 1997 version of "The Merriam-Webster Dictionary," the word "butler" is immediately followed by "butt." (That made me laugh like a five-year-old…)

**Warnings: **Implied shouta like WOAH.

**XXX**

**Bedtime Rituals**

**XXX**

Occasionally, Sebastian forgot that he was dealing with a child.

"Young master," he'd say, bowing himself into his new tamer's dark study, "it is time to prepare for bed."

Silence. The scrtich-scratch of Ciel's busy quill would stop; for an instant, it would seem as if his breathing did, as well. And that first night, Sebastian was stupid enough to assume that this meant he was surrendering to the inevitable—setting aside his daily chores in favor of completing their agreed upon bedtime routine. But by the time the demon lifted his politely tilted head, the 10-year-old would be gone.

The first time this happened, Sebastian could do nothing but blink in surprise. The second, he sighed, and traipsed about the manor for an hour, playing a dutiful game of hide-and-seek with his charge. The third found him scowling, compulsively checking his pocket watch as he made a bee-line for the pantry cabinet he sensed Ciel had somehow managed to escape into.

"_Really,_ young master!" he chastised, yanking the child out into the open by the scruff of his neck. (The little boy growled pathetically, vainly resisting the tug of white-gloved fingers.) "A noble such as you should never behave in such an atrocious manner! It's disgraceful."

Ciel had no response but a sneer, writhing in his butler's steel-strong grasp as he was forcibly dragged to the tub. For a spell, Sebastian deluded himself into thinking that the worst was over, but no—he soon discovered that getting the preteen out of his foppery was almost as painful a process as the bath itself: full of wriggling and whining and much cursing from the earl. Even Sebastian's demonic attributes weren't much help against the squawking noble; certainly, he had enough strength to wring the brat's scrawny neck, but their contract wouldn't allow it. What's more, he still wasn't used to functioning in the human realm—he had to concentrate so hard on not-accidentally-(on-purpose)-hurting his small master, he couldn't fully concentrate on his master _himself_. And the slippery little bastard (no pun intended) was annoyingly good at taking advantage of this…

"Young ma—! Get back here!"

"_No!_" Ciel shrieked, jolting from the bath with a small tidal wave of scented water. By the time Sebastian had whirled around, the boy had already splish-splashing his way to the door; he was skating down the marble halls on his pruny feet before the demon had a chance to stand. And how ironic was it— Sebastian couldn't help but muse, chasing down the bright-n-shiny hiney that zipped through corridors and doorways— that the child was more than willing to sacrifice his immortal soul to a demon, but show him warm water and bubbles and he was screaming for mercy. It was almost enough to hurt Sebastian's pride as a creature of the underworld… how was a nightly dip in the tub more terrifying than the devil himself?

But that was neither here nor there.

"Young master, streaking is an unattractive hobby," the butler snapped, lifting his once-again-captured charge by the ankle. Upside down and still dripping wet, the little boy snarled.

"It's not like there's anyone around to see me," Ciel grumbled in return, but at least he was no longer resisting. He was smart enough to know that Sebastian would have no problems dropping him on his head; he had no desire to add a migraine to his list of nocturnal woes.

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow. "How refreshing to know that the young master has a speckling of shame. Very well. I'll look into hiring more servants in the morning. Let's see if we can stomp out this nasty habit…"

Another snarl. With his free foot, the child attempted to clip Sebastian's jaw; the demon merely smiled as he dodged the attack.

But unfortunately, the smile didn't stay in place for very long: as soon as his nightshirt was buttoned, the small earl had bolted once more, leaving the demon to bash his frustrated forehead against the nearest available wall. By the time he'd managed to haul his charge (hissing-and-spitting all the while) back to his bedroom— quickly fixing the outside lock, so that Ciel could do nothing but rage like an animal against the barricaded door— _Sebastian_ was the one who felt ready for bed.

"This is ludicrous," the butler muttered to himself, raking a hand through sweaty bangs as he meandered back down to the kitchen. "There has got to be an easier way to force that little monster to—"

It was then that his ruby gaze fell upon the Wedgewood tea set, and his wicked mind provided him with an idea.

Which brought the pair to the fourth day of Sebastian's contracted servitude. The nine o'clock bells tolled, and—just like the nights before—they found the demon bowing himself into his master's study. Also like the nights before, Ciel sat, ready, on the edge of his seat… but paused when he noticed the laden tray in his servant's arms.

"What're you doing?" the boy inquired suspiciously, even as he eased himself back into the confines of his chair. "Don't think you can trick me with gestures of good will. I still don't want to go to bed."

Sebastian smiled blithely, rearranging the papers on his charge's desk. "Young master, something occurred to me last night," he explained, setting a cup of peppermint tea atop a cleared patch of mahogany. "While all small children dislike bedtime, most renounce the practice of armed resistance at the age of five or six. _Unless_—" and here, he forced the steaming drink into Ciel's tiny hands, "—they have a very good reason to continue."

"…what are you saying, exactly?" the boy grumbled, looking petulant even as he took an obliging sip of his refreshment. The gentle, soothing aroma of mint was somehow intoxicating…

"I beg your forgiveness, young master," Sebastian apologized solemnly, bowing from the waist. "I somehow forgot the horrible trauma that you only-so-recently survived. The night must bring you horrible dreams, for you to oppose rest so actively."

Ciel chose not to verbally respond, instead taking a deeper pull of his tea. Though, as he swallowed, he couldn't help but notice how strangely potent the drink was. Liquids like this were supposed to warm one's insides, he knew, but to this degree…? He could feel his face flushing, cheeks rosy and tummy twisting, as he tried with renewed effort to focus on the purred words of his obsequious butler.

"And so I got to thinking, young master," Sebastian was saying, a gentle lilt of amusement coloring his whispery words. A lifted finger, tipped in black, dissected the curve of the demon's smile— and oh, how odd— without Ciel's notice, Sebastian's white kid gloves had vanished. So had the silver tea tray, it seemed. "How could I help relax you? After all, as a servant of Phantomhive, what would I do if I couldn't provide my master with a dreamless sleep?"

A velvet chuckle, a self-satisfied smile. Realization struck with the force of a physical blow; Ciel gulped. Hard. And in doing so, he ingested the last swig of peppermint.

Quivering coal lashes fluttered in hazy-headed comprehension—the teacup tumbled from trembling fingers with a delicate shatter. He'd never felt so… _peculiar_… "Did you… put a sleeping draft in my tea?" the boy demanded, voice oddly husky in his burning ears. Why did his lower belly feel so _squirmy_? He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, but it was hard (wait, why was his…? Oh dear…) when his innards were as hot as Sebastian's trailing hands…

Ciel blinked blearily, tongue too heavy to form an order of resistance, even as his demon began leisurely unbuttoning his waistcoat.

"Oo, this is much more _fun_ than a sleeping draft, my lord. It's called an aphrodisiac," Sebastian cooed, smirking lips skimming a path up his moaning master's silken throat. "And don't worry. When we're done, you'll be far too exhausted for nightmares…"

And so he was. Thus, that fourth night marked the beginning of a new bedtime ritual—one that both parties seemed inordinately pleased with: Ciel no longer feared twelve hours of hallucinated torture, and Sebastian was no longer forced to endure the hours of _legitimate_ torture that putting the child to bed had entailed. And while the streaking didn't go away, it was at least confined to his master's study.

Neither could ask for more than that.

**XXX**


	7. Beauty xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** Nu-uh.

**Author's Note:** So I was walking through the snow, thinking about Kuro (as per usual) and contemplating how pretty Sebastian would look in this sort of weather. (You know, with the white/black contrast.) And then—because my brain is constantly in fanfic mode—Sebastian and Ciel began having this conversation in my mind. Which I have now transcribed for you here. And I hope you enjoy it. :3

**Dedication:** A happy birthday to my dear LJ friend, i_are_qualified! :D

**XXX**

**Beauty**

**XXX**

"Why are you so beautiful?"

"…I am flattered that you consider me 'beautiful,' young master."

"_Tch_. Don't be cute. You know what I mean."

"You are referring to my ability to pick my appearance, I presume."

"You presume correctly."

"Then if I might take the liberty to offer a counter-question: would anyone choose to be ugly?"

"Any human, no. But you are _not_ human, and you make no decisions unless there is some strategic value for it or reasoning behind it. It's in your nature."

"Perhaps it's Vanity. That is one of the Deadly Sins, you know."

"So is Gluttony and Sloth, neither of which you exemplify."

"Touché."

"So why did you decide on beauty?"

"Have you ever dangled a sparkling gem before a greedy aristocrat?"

"Beauty beguiles."

"Precisely, young master."

"So you fashion yourself into a diamond among refuse to attract those creatures with magpie-like tendencies?"

"You could phrase it that way, I suppose. Though I would not."

"Evil is beautiful to attract the terminally stupid."

"To attract _humans_."

"Same thing."

"…indeed."

"But I must confess, Sebastian, I find in this answer something of a conundrum."

"Would my lord care to explain?"

"Well, 'Good' is supposed to be beautiful, isn't it? Or so Lizzie tells me, after she returns home from the damn church. 'Good' is beautiful, because it is so clean and pure. But now you tell me that Evil _also_ utilizes beauty, in order to bewitch its prey. But both _can't_ be beautiful."

"Why ever not?"

"Because there is so much _ugly_ everywhere. It makes no sense— if Good is beautiful, and Evil is beautiful, then even the gray between them should be beautiful. But this world is anything but…"

"Surely Lady Elizabeth did not tell you that _all_ Good is beautiful?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, certainly some Good is beautiful, but that is not an overriding rule. For example, the Catholic's Bible proclaims that the Savior will return as a degenerative cripple. Perhaps this is merely a reflection of my own humble tastes, but I do not consider degenerative cripples very beautiful."

"…not all Evil is beautiful, either."

"Oh my. Does your brand hurt, young master?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"As you wish."

"…"

"…"

"…there at least has to be a difference between the beauties, doesn't there?"

"…"

"Sebastian?"

"…"

"Answer me."

"Oh, am I allowed to speak again?"

"Don't act like a child. It's unbecoming in one of my servants."

"My apologies, young master. What was the question?"

"Is there a difference between the beauties of Good and Evil?"

"Oh, most definitely. Surely my lord has noticed as well? The beauty of Good tends to base itself far more on the morality of life, while Evil is decidedly more… superficial."

"But not always."

"Young master?"

"Angels are supposed to be beautiful, aren't they? Physically, I mean."

"Who knows?"

"You do, don't you?"

"…"

"Don't smile like that—I hate it when you smile like that. Just answer the question."

"Well, Christian lore states that devils were once angels— angels who had Fallen."

"Yes, Fallen. Fallen from grace, from prestige. Implying that they are no longer beautiful."

"I am hurt. Are you retracting your earlier compliment?"

"…it's true, then?"

"Hmmm, though I don't believe 'Fallen' is the best world. It has implications, you see. 'Pushed' would be far more accurate, I think—when other, less beautiful angels saw their fellows and got jealous…"

"_Ha_. Now I know you're lying. I can hardly imagine you allowing yourself to be _pushed_ anywhere."

"Perhaps Heaven was not the place I wanted to be."

"Earth caught your fancy, did it?"

"One gains more with beauty, here."

"…you're smiling again."

"You're blushing."

"Because you're far too close."

"Am I? Then order me away."

"…"

"Feeling beguiled, young master?"

"I'm feeling like you should either kiss me, or get the hell out of my face."

"Yes, my lord."

**XXX**


	8. Snowfall xxx General

**Disclaimer:** Nope.

**Author's Note:** So… this is not at all what it was SUPPOSED to be. But, you know, whatever. It happens. I went with it.

**Dedication:** For LJ's brilliant Yinake. Happy birthday!

**XXX**

**Snowfall**

**XXX**

The snow falls.

Drifting puffs of ivory down; wintery blossoms of iced cottonwood; feathery flakes that dance and swirl and catch on the fringes of coiled, black lashes, lingering like so many happy memories: brief, fragile, and soon to melt away.

The snow falls.

Heavy, thick, and silent, muffling the sound of footprints and breath, footprints and breath. There is no wind, no sun, no earth, no sky. There is no up, no down, no day, no night. Only this. Only snow. Only himself and his butler in a world that has been whitewashed; a world incased in spherical glass, like one of Lizzie's precious toy globes.

The snow falls.

And Sebastian is a vision. The only creature discernable in this colorless existence: vibrant in his dimness, blinding in his darkness. Skin as pale as frosted birch; hair a glossy, lacquered ebony. Tranquil, elegant. Almost lambent— the Winter King of pagan lore, a fairy-presence in the heart of England's forests. He moves (no, _glides_) through drifts and mounds, ethereal in his grace. Unfazed, unfettered; his limbs as long as trees are tall, claret eyes the only suns in this pastel universe.

The snow falls.

A flake here. A flake there. Desperate children of the season, gathering on and around the apathetic demon. They crave his attention; they scream in his ears as they tumble, tumble, tumble… plunging to their untimely deaths. Unnoticed touches land upon his head, shoulders, face— tender embraces that dissolve into tears, vanish in moments. Gone. Dead. Before he even has a chance to remember them. Like so many worthless, wasted, insignificant human lives.

The snow falls.

As it does, Ciel watches his butler meander—two steps ahead down the lonely, sleet-kissed path.

The snow falls.

He is a snowflake, like so many others: one of millions, barely unique. Straining, touching, soon to evaporate…

The snow falls.

And so, he knows, has he.

**XXX**


	9. La Dolce Vita xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** No, no, and no.

**Author's Note:** Ciel Phantomhive: taking 'eye-candy' to a whole new level.

**Dedication:** For Yinake again. Same reason as before. XD

**XXX**

**La Dolce Vita**

**XXX**

Sometimes, Ciel finds himself longing for seconds.

A replication. A repetition. Another bite of chilled Crème Brule, caramelized and decorated with sugar-spun stars; the airiest angel food, so fine that it melts on the tip of the tongue; freshly-churned vanilla ice-cream, luxuriously laden with pink strawberry sauce; bite-sized tarts of egg-custard; pumpkin cheesecake with cinnamon sprinkles; dark chocolate drizzle that coats cookies and fingers and nape and the edge of his chin, just waiting to be licked, kissed, eaten—savory and succulent.

But there are no duplicates on the Phantomhive menu: each dessert is unique, every encounter exclusive. No matter how much the boy craves bowls of mango sherbet, pines for crumble-topped fruit pies— dreams of things as white as milk, sweet as sugar, and oh, full of _cream_— he also recognizes that half the wonder is in the very impossibility of the rations' return. He appreciates each bite, each moment all the more, knowing he'll never experience anything quite like it again.

And that's the way he prefers it. Things would get quite _boring_, otherwise— let them eat cake, but not _only_ cake. After all, there are so many other pastries to sample, skin left to taste, touches to try and recipes to discover. The spirit of adventure dictates his curiosities in candy and cuisine, both edible and erotic.

Sometimes, Ciel find himself longing for seconds.

But then Sebastian enters with a tray of homemade raspberry glaze, a sickle-smile upon his lips, and Ciel remembers why he never makes orders for old dishes: because the path ahead promises so much _more_. Sweet, sour, tart, tangy, trailing, thrusting, swallowing… Sensations unknown, but longed for.

The demon lifts an ungloved hand, suggestive in its indications. "Your dessert, my lord."

Ciel feels his lower belly twist with hunger. His own mouth curves upward.

The future has never looked more delicious.

**XXX**


	10. Acquisition xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this.

**Author's Note:** I'd like to give my thanks to Salome Sensei for inadvertently inspiring this insanity. :3

**Warnings: **Mmm, shouta. References to episode 9 of the anime.

**Dedication: **A happy birthday to LJ user crsg! I hope that this is light and fluffy enough for you. :D

**XXX**

**Acquisition**

**XXX**

"…you cannot honestly expect me to believe that."

Scowling in a blatant show of skepticism, Ciel twirled the skeletally cylindrical weapon between his long fingers, examining it from heart-shaped tip to feathery bottom; the pseudo-baton made a faint whirling sound as he persisted in these ministrations, the air rushing through the ribbed down of the white-and-pink crest. Slender, smooth, and just under two feet long, it was— in the boy's eyes— nothing more than an ordinary arrow. The utter poppycock that demon spouted!

Yet, for all his charge's sneering and scoffing, Sebastian (who had, of course, been the one to first bequeath upon his master this innocuous instrument) continued to wear that deceptively blithe smile, the silver platter on which he'd presented his strange gift still half-raised. He tilted forward in a second, obsequious bow.

"Does it not please you?" the butler murmured, the faintest hint of folsom disappointment coloring his otherwise monotonous drone. "What a pity. And here I was under the impression that the young master had a fondness for such mystical trinkets."

The child arched a single eyebrow, lifting it higher and higher until it resembled the bow that his newly-acquired arrow currently lacked. "You speak lunacy," he quipped, huffing as his dexterous digits twirled the pointed projectile. "Talbot's camera was one thing. It had a history, a legacy. _This _looks like something you made with Lizzie in an arts class."

Sebastian straightened from his prostrate position with a half-swallowed chuckle dancing on the tip of his tongue; a condescending leer tugged at the corners of his glossy lips. "I am afraid I do not understand the young master's argument," the servant murmured as humbly as his lengthy smirk would allow. "Is he saying that the Greek god Cupid's enchanted arrows lack a legacy long and distinguished enough to earn a place in the young master's illustrious collection of rare artifacts and supernatural baubles?"

Ciel's response was the driest of glares. "…Sebastian, the glue is still drying on the ends of the shaft," he drawled, extending his acquisition as if in an invitation to scrutinize. Not that one needed to look hard to notice the dripping paste.

The devil remained impressively unfazed, even as his garnet eyes skimmed up and down the crepe-decorated forgery. "…I admit, I had to spruce the thing up a bit," he eventually confessed, as cool as you please. "Surely the young master had to do the same to that old camer—?"

"No," the earl interrupted flatly. "I didn't."

"Oh." Sebastian cocked his pretty head, donning a momentary mask of innocent confusion. But he could hardly contain his amusement for long; within seconds, his grin had cleared the puzzled expression from his face— as quickly and completely as the summer sun does dew. "Well, it stands to reason, I suppose. An arrow from an ancient civilization is significantly older than some charmed camera," he thus concluded, wholly flippant about the entire ordeal.

Ciel's exasperation grew infinitely more obvious. "Listen here, now, you irritating creature," he spat through gritted teeth, slamming his fist against his desk. "I— _shi—!_"

…which had been a rather stupid move, on the boy's part, as his fist had been full of arrow, and said arrow had been tip-down, and when the metal head had forcefully met the table, his flesh— spurred on by gravity as well as the pure, physical momentum of such a gesticulation— eagerly followed suit. The end result: his skin made intimate contact with the dulled edge of the ridiculous-looking dart. The pale membrane of his palm ripped and oozed in the metal heart's wake, a thin stream of red dribbling onto the waxed surface of the counter.

Ciel's reaction to this injury was a few choice words.

The demon's response, on the other hand, was marked by his rose-tea gaze mock-widening, and a sardonic gasp escaping his crescent-chasm mouth. "Goodness me, young master!" he cooed, sidling forward with his silken kerchief at the ready. "How very clumsy—you really must watch that temper of yours. But oh dear, what have I done?" Sebastian reeled back a step as if in sheer horror; all the while, his carefully constructed aura of concern was cracking, crumbling, and collapsing around him... "Everyone knows the effects of being pricked by Cupid's arrow. Whatever shall we do, now that you have looked upon me?"

At the sound of his butler's lilting voice, Ciel had bared his teeth and growled; with a snap of his pain-drooped neck, the boy twisted his narrowed eyes in the direction of his servant… His glower remained horribly virulent, even as his rounded cheeks grew hot and flushed. "F-fool…" the small nobleman grounded out, curling around his injury as the burgundy blush crept across his throat, blanketed his clavicle, slid down the staircase of his spine… "I s-saw you dip that t-thing in aphrodisiac…"

"…did you, now?"

Sebastian's gaze— no longer rusted red—flashed a vibrant shade of claret, his irises luminous with deviant delight. His pupils waned to slits, as was their wont when attending to an order… An order found in loopholes, but an order nonetheless. For Ciel was already twitching and jerking, insides writhing with demands that pride and sheer, loathsome _stubbornness_ would never allow him to verbalize, but oh— his body was practically _screaming_ its Wants, and that was all the permission the demon needed.

"Funny that you should choose to toy so carelessly with that arrow, then, young master," the devil purred, tenderly wrenching the now-worthless weapon from the desk and tossing it in the trash. There were other pointed pleasures to attend to… "Or could it be that the young master was simply too shy to ask for my… company?"

The tiny earl choked on a muffled groan, the sound half-furious and half-desperate as he was sprawled across the table, wriggling wantonly. "D-don't act so f-full of yourself, you b-bastard," Ciel hissed, even as his cheerful servant began popping his waistcoat's many pearl buttons. His frail hands lifted to resist this disrobement, but his conviction was just as weak as his thin, human muscles. And so instead his chest heaved, and his mind fogged, and his arms lifted to wrap around the monster's familiar, well-loved neck… "It was… just— _ah!_— a m-mistake…"

The feeble protest was rebuffed by a snicker.

"Oh, I would disagree, my lord," Sebastian murmured smoothly, loosening two sets of tightening pants. Spidery hands slid tauntingly up, up, up— tickling and teasing as a shadow slipped down, down, down, ice and fire mixing as the merry devil whispered:

"Gods don't make mistakes."

**XXX**


	11. Reverse xxx CielSeba

**Disclaimer: **Haha.

**Author's Note/Dedication: **Happy (late) birthday to LJ user **masiru_chan**! (I really suck at getting these things out on time. XD;) Nothin' quite like a little crossdressing to celebrate, yes?

**Warnings: **CIELSEBA ZOMG. Not my best work ever, but hopefully enough to get a smile out of you. :D

**XXX**

**Reverse**

**XXX**

It was, in retrospect, not the best idea that Ciel Phantomhive had ever had.

"Mmm— ah~!"

It had seemed like quite the perfect revenge at the time— heavy in irony, with the added benefit of humiliation and (perhaps) a smattering of physical pain.

"Nnn…"

Yes, when he had first rediscovered the blasted piece of underwear— hidden, like the gown it had been bought for, in the dusty recesses of the teenaged earl's oldest wardrobe—, Ciel could think of no better vengeance than to force his black-swathed tormentor into the same cursed contraption. It would be pleasing, he had thought, to watch the demon squirm with discomfort, both mentally (for what self-respecting chap would _enjoy_ wearing a corset?) and physically (because dammit, he'd _prove_ that those things could squeeze out one's organs!).

"Oh~!"

But that had been then. And this, unfortunately, was now— and Ciel had been made bitingly aware of the futility of trying to embarrass a creature who lacked all matter of shame. Or subtlety. Or maybe this was revenge of his own, bottled up since that day six years ago… That day that they were currently parodying, hidden away in Ciel's bedroom corner: with the devil's palms flat against the wall and his bum popped up and his legs spread out, wide and wanton. Yes, wearing little more than the frilled knickers that his master had forced upon his person, Sebastian was doing exactly as he'd been ordered: he was reliving his tamer's corseted experience, word-for-word and groan-for-groan and wriggle-for-wriggle.

And sadly, those words and groans and wriggles were very much distracting Ciel from his highly anticipated retaliation.

"Would you kindly _stop_ doing that…?" the young man bit through gritted teeth, fisted fingers quivering as they tried to tighten the corset's intricate laces. He gave the twine a pointed jerk; of the two males present, _he_ was the one to wince— electric shocks showering down his spine in the wake of Sebastian's heavy exhales, so reminiscent of when they—

_Don't think about it._

Through sweat-dewed bangs, the demon cast his charge a heady-eyed glance, half-lidded and innocuous. Those thick, fringed lashes quavered, and all Ciel could do was remember the feel of them against his cheeks… "St-stop doing— ah~!—wh… what, my Lord…?" the demon inquired, the hoarse resonance of the query only adding to his master's half-formulated fantasy. Said master noticeably flinched when Sebastian's lilted voice caught on a hiss and a long, laborious moan… And as if his vocals weren't enough, the demon utilized his spidery hands, as well: previously sprawled and clawing at the wall, they curled inward with a _scrape_ and a _scratch _and a whimpered sigh as memories—

_NO._

Ciel glowered, trying to hide his flushed face behind his own dangling locks. "Stop making those… those _noises_! They're entirely inappropriate!" he snapped, gaze flicking this way and that and side to side, even as he made a herculean effort to keep his eyes focused on the garment's ties. Alas, it was an impossible task, for the butler's ruffled bottom kept swaying, dipping, writhing— mimicking motions that his tamer had been entirely unfamiliar with, back when this scene had first played out. But now…

The nobleman could feel his own clothes tightening, and it had nothing to do with a corset.

"My… my apologies, y-young master…" Sebastian gasped in reply, chest heaving up and down and up and down as his half-bare torso shifted, neck straining magnificently as he tried to catch sight of his pretty lord from over his shoulder. The position emphasized his already lovely angles, the fluid strands of his silken, onyx hair… His voice was husky honey, melting on his tongue as the heat of his breath and body turned Ciel's hormonally-charged brain into a smoldering pile of ash, thus forcing "other" pieces of anatomy to take over the process of decision-making. And with the devil's deliciously tight ass rubbing so teasingly against this new decision-making-entity, Ciel found it increasingly difficult to remember why he was doing this in the first place, if not to—

_N…no… _

The teen's weakening grip upon the ribbons trembled desperately— his wrists suffered subconscious spasms, pulling at the treaded ropes as if they were reigns, not laces. All the while, the demon purred and wibbled and grunted and "_Haaa_— b-but you were right about the pai—_oh_!"

And then Sebastian tossed his head, and thrust his hips, and for a full sixty seconds all Ciel could see was Eden-Apple-Red: the rosy planes of the butler's throat, the healthy thrum of his jugular, the glossy sheen of sweat that made his servant's pinking flesh all the more sinfully—

_God damn him! _

"_Ah_— ah…? Young master?" Sebastian blinked, previously-contorted features smoothing into an expression of composed curiosity; the changing of masks was instantaneous, the only consistent his laughing red eyes. Tilting his head, he flicked a questioning glance back towards his enthusiastic little lord, who was again playing with cords—just not the ones on the corset. "Might I inquire as to what you are doing?"

A pair of velveteen britches met the carpeted floor, joining the butler's discarded suit.

"Proving my point," Ciel returned curtly, wrapping his left arm around the creature's middle. Rear met crotch; a ringed thumb slipped, slid, and tugged, yanking at the hem of the demon's decorative panties. Other digits soon joined in the prodding, some larger than others. "Corsets make organs come out."

Sebastian smirked and resumed his position.

**XXX**


	12. Onaji xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Stop asking me, already!

**Author's Note: **This was supposed to be a Ciel introspective that takes place at the end of the Jack the Ripper arc, and it's _sorta_ still that. But mostly not. XD; Sorry~

**Dedication: **For LJ user may_unleashed. HAPPIEST OF HAPPY BIRTHDAYS! 3

**Warnings: **Fluff, I guess? Occurs after Sebastian gets all bloodied up, but before Madam Red's funeral. References manga chapter 12.

**XXX**

**Onaji**

**XXX**

"Repulsive."

The screech of ripping gauze bounced off of the shadowed walls of the kitchen; the white ribbons of torn, glossy material glinted like strips of petrified snow in the flickering lights of the single candelabra. Three wicks, molten-red with flame, cast rosy light upon Ciel's fragile hands— hands that were as pale as the cloth that they held, their highlights and lowlights shifting as the tiny digits constricted around their task. The boy's words (those already spoken, as well as those that had yet to be uttered) were frosted, and full of such a bitter ice that they froze the air around them. Oh, yes, Winter was coming—Jack Frost did not simply linger outside the door. Rather, he had invited himself inside, and was staying as a guest in the manor; Sebastian could almost _see_ his master's voice as he spoke, the syllables and sentences floating from his pursed lips like silvery plumes of sound…

The butler slowly unbuttoned his tattered shirt, allowing the browning blood to seep into the whorls and swirls of his fingertips. "Young master?" he murmured as he did so, careful to keep his tone light—his gaze downcast and demure. The child was in no mood to be (further) toyed with, and he, quite honestly, was in no shape to toy. "Is there a problem?"

For a full three minutes, his somber lord's only response was a piercing, mismatched stare. One a shade of dull vermillion, the other a glassy tint of azure, the eyes slid up and down his servant's exposed form, drinking in each curve and crevasse, every bump and abrasion. Muscles, tendons, flesh, hair; pride, stubbornness, drive, ambition. Traits both familiar and foreign, unique and cliché, reflected in skin and aura.

"...yes," the earl then muttered, insipid and flat, slipping noisily from his wooden stool. Brittle arms, still incased in common cotton, unfurled and lifted, as if crucified on air; a single silvery slip of cloth dangled from his fists. Ciel made his way forward, forcing one end of the binding into the demon's hands. "The problem is _you. _You're a stupid _faker_, that's what you are. A horrible pretender, and I find it highly distasteful. You waltz around, acting invincible, but look at you— you're just as weak as anyone else."

"…indeed." Sebastian— both amused by and aware of the truth behind this complaint— felt his lips quirk upward, forming a flickering ghost of a grin. But as his little charge began to decorate him like a maypole, twirling round and round and round, he held the bandage to his oozing gash and feigned contriteness, as a good butler should. "I apologize most profusely for forcing the young master to pay witness to my shame," he murmured, inclining his head a reverential half inch. Not that he expected (or desired) forgiveness…

Which was just as well, for the boy would never give it.

"What's more," the child grumbled as the other bowed and scraped, carefully synching the thick band of fabric around his devil's ragged chest, "you're a liar. You've been lying to me. You've got a soul of your own, don't you—since you have a Cinematic Record. Or whatever the hell those things were called… And yet you parade around as if you're entirely different from m— us humans…"

Sebastian grunted, clearing his throat so as to garner his tamer's attention.

"In my defense—_ah_—I do not believe I ever claimed to be a soulless being," he began, but cut himself off with another cough (brisk and flustered) as his master glowered, snorted, and tightened the gauze's knot with a vigor that was neither warranted nor necessary. And while oxygen wasn't a necessity for the butler, it still felt wholly unpleasant to have it squeezed so forcefully from his battered lungs… "In any case—_haa_—, it is not a lie that I must also consume souls—"

"And that's another thing," the boy continued, interrupting as blithely as if he hadn't heard Sebastian at all—which was neigh-impossible, as he was no more than six inches away from his servant's startled face, at this point… his palms splayed gingerly across the stained expanse of the creature's now-bandaged chest. "You act so disgustingly _independent_. Like you're perfectly capable of being self-sufficient… But you _need_ me, Sebastian. You do." The nobleman nodded, swift and forceful, as if in confirmation of this claim. "You need me to hide you, and care for you, and provide you with a home and clothes and… and food."

The last word was a whisper, but it echoed like a scream. And in response, the demon cocked his pretty head, watching with some degree of surprise as his master's delicate shoulders began to tremble. Nearly imperceptible, at first, but gradually growing more and more obvious—his lily face splotching with patches of rose, watered by the tepid tears that he tried ever-so-desperately to keep locked within his swollen ducts.

Sebastian considered this lovely display, pupils waning as his tamer's hands tangled within the binds of his bandages, like a fly within a web.

"… sadly, I must disagree with your assessment, my lord," the butler then decreed, his voice soft and his gaze softer-still as his slender fingers lifted, lingered, lowered— carefully cupping the shoulders of his downtrodden, downcast master. Ciel instinctively flinched. "I am perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet, without the assistance of anything or anyone. However…"

He gently tapped the grieving earl's wobbling chin, forcing that hazy, multicolored gaze upward.

"However, I have _chosen_ to take you as my master," Sebastian concluded, gently brushing stray locks of rumpled moonstone hair from Ciel's weary, sadness-streaked face. "I made that decision, knowing full-well what I was agreeing to. And there is no shame in being dependent upon a person if that is what you desire, correct?"

The child said nothing in response to this, but his wavering grip and quavering bottom lip spoke of desperate agreement—of silent gratitude. In lieu of words, Ciel shuffled another half-inch nearer, so close now that the demon could feel each snuffled burst of breath explode across his torso; could hear every tooth in his clamped jaw chatter; could sense the boy's smallest tremors, poised as he was between his servant's parted knees.

And there he stood, as if waiting for something to happen.

Sebastian smiled. He knew what the boy wanted. And, as a servant of Phantomhive, it was his distinct pleasure to fulfill his lord's every desire. Thus, with a grunt and a sigh— ignoring the nobleman's halfhearted protests, as well as the outcry of agony from his own body—, the devil unceremoniously pulled his charge into his lap, and wrapped his arms around him.

"We are not so different, you and I."

Ciel—either out of shock or agreement— fell quiet. Fell still. Allowed his servant to rock him steadily back and forth, back and forth— so slowly that he hardly noticed, but so pointedly that he felt his nerves begin to sooth. A musing sort of melody wheedled its way into the silence, improvised and jovial, lulling and low, resounding as a lullaby within the exhausted earl's ears. With a droop, snap, sag, his head fell heavily against Sebastian's shoulder, and oh, the warmth of the devil's broken body seemed to obliterate even the memory of the (fear) chill.

His eyelids fluttered, mind turning to nothing more than white static…

Hours passed. The little boy slept. And all the while, Sebastian sat with his charge safely enveloped in his arms, not wanting to let him go.

After all, just because someone is capable of surviving on their own, that doesn't mean they wish to be all by themselves.

**XXX**


	13. Noir xxx General

**Disclaimer: **No~

**Author's Note: **I feel like it's been ages since I last wrote something…

**Warnings: **Simply written; more of a writing exercise than a ficlet. Inspired by the artwork of Goodbyemyheart. :3

**XXX**

**Noir**

**XXX**

_Click_.

Ciel Phantomhive is bored.

"Your turn," he grunts, tossing the trinket to his butler. The room is pitch-black, save for a sliver of slithering moonlight; the silvery gleam cuts across the monochrome rug like an ethereal blade, crafted from liquid mercury. And as the beloved toy arcs over that insubstantial barrier, its metallic coating glints and glimmers: flashing like a falling star.

The butler snatches the bauble from the air—interrupting its artful display of parabolic tumbles—, and in a single fluid motion twists his torso towards his tamer.

_Click_.

No flash, no powder. No scent of brimstone, no roaring in his ears.

"Young master," Sebastian breaths—as if in apology— bowing from somewhere within the gloom-obscured emptiness. The earl cannot see his slave's reverential gesture; all he knows of his servant is the scarlet flash of enchanted irises, and the irrefutable hold that they have over his soul.

A clattering skid; the knick-knack twirls across the wooden floorboards, coasting to a gentle stop— just close enough to brush against his toes. The leather armchair groans as the teenager bends forward, lifting the beloved plaything into his small, porcelain hands. Yet, as time wears on, even the silken pleasure of polished mahogany and glossed ivory fails to ignite any sort of flame within his gut.

There is but one fire in his life, now. One inferno, one passion. One curiosity. Blazing at him from across the room, growing brighter and stronger and hotter as the hours-days-months-years crawl by. It feeds, drains, consumes.

There is nothing else.

_Click_.

"Hmph." Another deft toss, another adroit catch. The shadows may have blinded him, but in the wake of his sightlessness the boy's other senses have heightened: he can hear the rhythmic rattle of shifting machinery—tinny clangs and clanks that are imperceptible in daylight, but near-palpable at night; he can smell the iced perfume of iron as it burns his nostrils, creeps down his throat, frosts over his lungs; he can feel an invisible entity pointing at him, looming over him, laughing and mocking and pulling on his puppet strings, grinning like a corpse as he taunts in whispered purrs…

The child in the lounger wonders vaguely whether tonight will end in a delicate cough ("Does the young master wish to recycle this pellet?") or a—

_BANG._

Thunder, lightening, smoke. Ashes, sparks, bitter vapor.

No pain.

"Oh dear," the unruffled devil murmurs, holding a white-hot bullet between two slender fingers. The air is tinged with the aroma of burning cotton, of overheated weaponry; Sebastian wears a soothing smile as he lowers the smoldering pistol to his side. "It appears that you have lost this round, my lord."

Ciel Phantomhive says (feels) nothing.

Only boredom remains.

**XXX**


	14. King xxx General

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **Written (in the span of five minutes) for LJ user bj_kun7, in response to a meme-prompt. XD;

**XXX**

**King**

**XXX**

If he wanted, Ciel Phantomhive could rid himself of lace.

He could rid himself of lace, of velvet, of other childish foppery-- he could force his butler to dress him as the adult he carries himself as: in suits and waistcoats and long-legged pants.

But there is deception in his finery; camouflage in his clothing. For what member of the arrogant gentry would ever suspect such a sweet looking boy of evil? No. There is a Power in his pomp-- and he relishes the idiotic ignorance of his foes. Willingly perpetuates their incorrect perceptions. Loves the moment when the _fear_ sets in, and their glassy eyes widen in realization and terror... but oh, just moments Too Late.

For indeed, a one-eyed man is king in the land of the blind.

**XXX**


	15. Weeds xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **Inspired by White Silver and Mercury's fic, "p h a n t a s m a g o r i a." Though it also reminds me of an old FMA fic I once wrote… XD;

**XXX**

**Weeds**

**XXX  
**

There comes a day when he can no longer wear shorts.

Ciel sits, impassively sipping his tea, as his butler observes the damage: runs slender fingers over the curve of his thigh, the round of his knee, and gingerly tests the flexibility of the crooked joint. The pallid expanse of the boy's snowy flesh appears even whiter—ghastly so— when framed by the royal blue fabric of his comforter and sheets; comparatively, Sebastian's gloves look a murky shade of cream as they smooth over his master's cooling skin.

The devil smiles. "…you are so beautiful, my lord," he breathes, lying lips curling back, back, back, revealing dagger-sharp teeth and a serpentine tongue. The slippery muscle lashes wet, whip-like kisses against the child's bony hip, accentuating his words with pink-colored nibbles: carnations that bloom beside the irises, columbine, violets, and moss that have flowered upon the boy's torso and pelvis, and now slither south to ensnare his shins like the creeping vines of ivies.

The first black rose had appeared that morning. Sebastian lavishes the budding blossom with all manner of attention, for that particular plot holds so many memories… Ciel continues to nurse his refreshment, entirely expressionless— except for the raspy gasp-hiss-_moan_ that squeezes from his pursed lips as his butler's eager mouth finds his tender chest.

Three inches from his delicate sternum. Inflamed from ancient punctures, briefly patched, and now oozing acerbic pus. The liquid rot cakes his tamer's pealing flesh, leaving fissures upon his breast as epidermal cells succumb to the poison.

The demon purrs, relieving his charge of his unbuttoned nightshirt. Once upon a time, such a shirt could have lasted them a few months. Then a few weeks. Then a few days, and now a few hours. Time is a fickle mistress… "Had you forgotten, young master?" Sebastian whispers as he tosses the ruined fabric into the fire, pressing a second, third, fourth cantarella-sweet kiss against the ebony wound. The flames blaze, and the smoke smells of brimstone. "I warned you, That Day… you hadn't much time."

The little boy says nothing, instead choosing to drain his porcelain cup. His petite fingers quiver upon the golden curve of the china handle. His butler straightens, stands, _looms_— drinking in the lovely sight of the decomposing nobleman. Soon, he will not even be able to move those tiny hands of his… what a pity it would be. Almost as tragic as the day that his vocal cords disintegrated, crumbled into dust with a rip, tear, _snap_.

"Those Occultists took everything from you," Sebastian reminds, preparing the daily selection of bandages and garbs. A mismatched gaze watches the demon as he glides, pulling autumn-esque attire from the recesses of his master's summer wardrobe. "Your parents, your home… your very life. And I can do nothing but offer your soul bitter vengeance. At this rate, we shall have to locate a new vessel in order for you to obtain your goals."

In that moment, a thought occurs. The servant pauses. "…or is that your intention, young master?" he inquires, and yes—there is the faintest hint of surprise in his low, silken voice.

Ciel, of course, does not verbally respond. But his stare flicks meaningfully towards the sunny window, and that is answer enough. Outside, Sebastian can see the cheerful blonde gardener strolling through the labyrinthine grounds, not a care in the world nor a thought in his mind. Understanding is instantaneous.

The devil leers, wearing the grin of his pretty young master— the smile of a skull with wide, empty eyes.

"Yes, my lord."

And from the earl's right cornea, death radiates.

**XXX**


	16. What Dreams May Come xxx General

**Disclaimer: **Nope. Ownership belongs to Toboso-sensei, the anime creators, and Shakespeare. Oh yeah~

**Author's Note: **Wow. I haven't felt like writing fanfiction in ages. Funny what a little ego boost can do. XD

**Warnings: **Oh, you know me. WTF-ness up the whazoo. Probably not my best work, either, since I'm a bit rusty, at this point. And it's my first time writing for Alois and Claude, so that doesn't help. **In terms of spoilers**, this references the end of the first season, and the first two episodes of the second. Sorta.

**XXX**

**X**

**X**

**X**

"_To be or not to be: that is the question_

_Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer_

_The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,_

_Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,_

_And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep—_

_No more— and by a sleep to say we end_

_The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks_

_That flesh is heir to! 'Tis a consummation_

_Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—_

_To sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub_

_For in that sleep of death_** what dreams may come**

_when we have shuffled off this mortal coil,_

_Must give us pause."_

~ Hamlet, Act III, Scene i

**X**

**X**

**X**

**XXX**

There is a box in the cellar.

Alois likes to play with the box— prance and dance and hum perky tunes as he spins in concentric circles, performing a one-child version of ring-around-the-rosy. The box makes for a very forgiving playmate, never caring that the boy may bump or brush or beat against it. That he may someday try to break it.

Someday.

But the box will never see that coming. Oh no. Alois makes certain that his every gesture is a surprise—no one will be able to guess if he'll strike. When he'll strike. The box will be like children playing London Bridge, always wondering when the suspensions will snap. Who will be flattened by ironwork today? Who will be crushed and drowned?

As the blonde considers this, he skips. As he skips, he giggles; as he giggles, he smiles; and as he smiles, the madness spreads.

"Ashes, ashes!" the Trancy heir squeals, kicking his little booted feet into the air. His empty fists swing as if clasped around a friend's. And—because this part of the poem is his favorite—he sings it again: "Ashes, ashes!"

The basement is full of ashes.

**X**

"_You promised to stay by my side."_

"_Indeed I did."_

"_You lied."_

"_I do not lie, young master." _

**X**

"The basement is not full of ashes," Claude coolly corrects, standing somberly in the cobwebbed corner. Around his shaded head, woven buds of translucent thread have blossomed into white-silk roses. The spider-spun garden glimmers an endearing shade of pink in the wavering light of the candelabras. "What you are looking at, sir, is tea."

Mood swings are typical, Claude knows, in humans his charge's age. And so the demon is entirely unfazed when the chipper blonde's smirk suddenly melts into a scowl. Melts, even as his ocean eyes freeze over— becoming as biting and cold as miniature glaciers. "I don't want to drink _tea_," Alois proclaims with a snarl, clenching his sharp, pearly teeth. "I want to drink ashes. Phantomhive ashes."

He kicks his precious box—its hollow insides echo. And Alois briefly wonders (were he silly enough to kick himself) if his innards would resonate with the same sonorous emptiness.

The musing makes him laugh.

**X**

"_Then why did you leave me?" _

"_My master is the proud and haughty Ciel Phantomhive—an earl who fears nothing and no one. Who does not hesitate. Who shows no mercy. When one's master disappears, is it not _natural_ that his butler should follow?"_

"…_I'd rather you lie than make excuses."_

"_My lord?"_

**X**

"Ashes, ashes!" the small nobleman croons again, returning to his exuberant twirls. "Ashes, ashes! Ashes, ashes! We all fall down!"

At the last possible instant, the little one grabs his butler's gloved hands; insubstantial though the boy's thrown weight may be, Claude allows himself to be yanked atop the large box, serving as its lid. Alois, in turn, makes himself comfortable within the coffin's plush insides.

Inevitably, the shadow that the demon casts falls upon the preteen's china face. His expression contorts. "We all fall down," Alois repeats impassively, lip curling backwards as his pale eyes narrow. "Like London Bridge. Then we all turn to ash. And when I lay me down to sleep, my soul is in the devils' keep… heehee."

**X**

"_No matter how I act, Sebastian, I will always be Ciel Phantomhive. That is something that nobody—nothing— can change." _

"…_as you say."_

**X**

"I'm not sleeping now, though!" Alois cheers, giggling frantically as he starts to squirm, rocking back and forth and bashing his fragile arms and legs again the sides of his casket. Nails screech; hinges whine. But though the heavy planks of cherry wood groan and shiver, Claude hardly moves at all. Instead, he watches somberly as the boy beneath him writhes in blissful agony, clutching his stomach as if wounded or cramping or laughing too hard. "I'm awake! And I'm going to stay awake, this time. No more sleeping… no more."

His porcelain brow furrows, infantine fury creeping over his pretty features. "He had his turn," the gentleman pouts.

"He did," Claude agrees. He pursues his thin lips, and—through the clinging gloom— his golden eyes flash. Glint. Like a spider's, jewel-bright and omniscient, cutting straight into his tamer's brain. "I will see to it that the item is retrieved."

A shard of Hope indeed_. _"That bauble is mine," Alois grumbles, tone brusque with conviction. But soon his snooty glare is drifting, back and forth and back and forth, just like the coffin when he thrashed about— wriggling as if caught in a web. "The chess pieces are mine. This life is mine—not his! I don't want to give it back…!"

**X**

"_You left me."_

"_I apologize."_

"_You broke our contract. My lost ring is proof of that." _

"_Our covenant remains. I bent the rules, perhaps. But I broke nothing."_

**X**

"You will not have to 'give back' anything, sir. I will see to that."

The Trancy heir chuckles once more, head jerking left and right and up and down within the confines of his padded box. His fists are flexing, and his stare is darting, and he seizes with snickers as he slams his skull against the velvet headrest. The pain helps hone his concentration, just as it does his servants'.

"Then get me back my _dreams_, Claude," Alois sweetly demands, manicured nails jabbing at his own face. Poke poke. Prod prod. Pain to sharpen the senses. "He's stealing them. He's taking my dreams. I'm not myself at night. Or am I not myself during the day?" The child cocks his head, torn between panic and puzzlement. In the end, he abandons both worthless emotions and instead embraces humor. "Haha, how funny! It's like a game! Who am I now, Claude? Who am I now?"

The obsequious butler arches an eyebrow. "You are Alois Trancy." There is no question in the retort.

Even still, his master's response is a coy leer. "Am I?" the blonde purrs. "Am I really…?"

Tiny toy fingers drift across a vested chest, teasing the buttons and tugging on watch chains.

"Why do we pray for our souls before bed, Claude?" the little one then inquires, his lilting voice roughened by a throaty, sultry husk. "After all, it's when we're awake that we give them away…!"

The boy screeches in a bout of wild hysterics, beaming maniacally as his spidery hands skitter-scatter upward, coiling around his servant's composed face and poke-poking, prod-prodding. His assault gains a rhythm, and Alois chants in time: "Away, awake! Away, awake! If I should fall down, we'll both become ash!"

**X**

"_You owe me a debt that is impossible to repay." _

"_Young master, I excel at the impossible." _

**X**

But all things are fleeting—love, life, happiness. The child personifies this.

"…you're playing with me," he accuses, frowning as he releases Claude's abused cheeks.

The butler does not so much as take the time to fix his glasses. "That is not my place."

Alois's grin dulls a fraction; his irises are clouded aquamarines. Even still, he remains calm. "It wouldn't be the first time you've undermined me," he dully reminds, elbows clattering listlessly against black-lacquered wood. His invasive teasing has come to an abrupt end.

Claude, at least, has the good grace to appear temporarily startled. "I believe you are mistaking me for someone else," he rebukes tactfully, albeit somewhat bitter.

For a moment, the Trancy's successor says nothing.

**X**

"…_I was scared, you know." _

"_Allow me to take that fear away."_

"_I didn't want to die."_

"_Give me an order."_

"_I order you to…"_

**X**

"…save me."

The whisper is weak, pathetic. Almost alien in its desperateness, and yet—so familiar. Inside of his head, Alois is kicking himself… and he fears the noisy void that is slowly forming. He does not want to share his life, and he does not understand why he has to. He is one who is two who wishes to be one… like Claude. Like Humpty Dumpty. Like…

"I don't want to be broken anymore," the blonde chokes, liquid sapphire dripping down his wobbling chin. And in that instant, he is brittle— weak. A doll that has been played with one-too-many times, and his cracks are starting to show. "All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put me back together, but you can. So hurry up and save me…!"

Twin arms ensnare the stoic servant; the demon uses the leverage to gingerly pull his master out of the coffin. He does not belong there, anymore…

"I already _have_ saved you, your highness," the devil then breathes, and is privileged with permission to run his fingers through the boy's gold-spun hair. The ephemeral sensation of closeness is a comfort to Alois. It soothes him. Perhaps a little _too_ much; by the time he notices the twinge in his right eye, he is already drifting towards weary unconsciousness. Tottering on the edge of What Dreams May Come, staring into the dark depths of insanity and nothingness…

And he falls.

Claude is privy to no such distraction—instead must tolerate the ring of fire that begins to smolder on the back of his hand. He does not need to remove his gloves to know which contract seal is now singed into his skin. "Who you are is something that nobody—nothing—can change…" he repeats softly, cradling his cataleptic charge.

As if in reply, the child gives a groggy groan… but the sound is not a response. Already, his lashes are fluttering—like a butterfly being devoured—as his far-away soul begins to tug on new puppet strings.

"_Sebastian…?_" the vessel inquires sleepily. "_Is that you…?_"

And Claude—though his own mouth remains pointedly shut—hears himself respond:

"_Yes, my lord_."

**XXX**

**X**

**X**

**X**

**XXX**

Right, I don't usually do this—I feel it undermines your intelligence as readers—but season II has been confusing us all enough, so I'm gonna cut everyone a break, beat you to the punch, and explain "what the hell just happened." ;3

People have been hypothesizing lately (and probably correctly) that Kuro II's "Ciel sequences" have, so far, been "dreams." That is, Ciel really _is_ dead, and what we've been seeing is him living out his afterlife, or something. I decided to play with the "dream" idea, but in a different way. In this fic, Ciel and Alois are the same person. More specifically, they're sharing the same soul. Why?

To make up for "bending" the contract, Sebastian agreed to grant Ciel an impossible request. Ciel's demand was to "save him," because he didn't want to die. But his body was in pretty bad shape, so Ciel's soul was transferred into a new vessel, Alois. (Perhaps Alois had died in that massacre scene, making this possible…?) Claude was then created as a "spawn" of Sebastian (maybe he budded? XD;), charged to take care of this new vessel. (That is my explanation as to why Claude looks like Sebastian's bespeckled love child. X3) But both Alois and Claude know that once Sebastian finds the ring, aka "the symbol of the broken contract," he won't need Alois anymore, because the original covenant will be "mended." (And thus, things can go back to the way they were before.)

As if that ring were a drain plug, Alois' soul starts slowly seeping back into Ciel once Ciel has the ring again. (Because let's face it—Ciel isn't all "there"/"complete" without his bling-bling.) In this story, it has hit the point that when Alois is asleep, Ciel is conscious. That's why Alois doesn't want to sleep, and why he's getting crazier. (Bad crap happens to your brain when you're sleep deprived.)

Of course, Alois doesn't want to give his soul away; he rather likes being alive. So when he found out about all of this (I'm sure Claude told him, at some point), he tries to take precautions… like finding/hiding the ring. (But because Claude and Sebastian also "share a soul," Sebastian knows where to find them, once they obtain the ring.) This would also explain why Alois wants Ciel's body—if he can destroy the "other vessel," he can keep his soul. (I also think this would explain why Alois is so desperate to always keep Claude nearby; he half-remembers himself—as Ciel— being abandoned at the end of season one. Also, it would explain Alois and Claude's more unusual contractship, based on "desire." If Alois is/was Ciel—especially a Ciel with more intense abandonment issues—he _would _"yearn" to have 'Sebastian' back.) And Claude, of course, is all for this, because he doesn't particularly want to be assimilated back into Sebastian, either. (Hence his apparent hatred for Sebastian, coupled with his inability to be as awesome as Sebastian. 'Cause, you know. He's only a "portion" of Sebastian, himself.)

…yeah, I'd be shocked if ANYONE got all of that from this crappy little one-shot. Hell, I think that explanation helped ME make more sense of my ideas, haha. XD; I hope it helped you guys, too. Not that it really matters, anyway, because the translation of "Hakoniwa Tonchinkan"has revealed that Ciel's soul was inside his ring the whole time. (Yeah. It doesn't make sense to me, either. I mean, I know Ciel said he could "hear the screams" of his forefathers in the ring, but this is just ridiculous. YOU DON'T GET TO USE HORCRUXES, CIEL. THOSE ARE COPYRIGHTED.)

Well, maybe I'm onto something, but the "vessel" Sebastian chose was the ring, rather than another person. Eh.

Ah well. It was nice to just _write_ again, in any case. It's been a while. :3

Hope you enjoyed~!


	17. Adoption Papers xxx General

**Disclaimer: **I own neither "Kuro," nor these prompts.

**Author's Note: **SIIIIIIGH~

So, after my "That Butler Grocery Shops (and That Master Rides in the Cart)" picture, my dear lj user="neocloud9" and I joked about me writing an AU where Sebastian is Ciel's adopted father. And I said I wouldn't.

Ha.

But because I don't have enough time to actually write this as a series, I decided to go the mini-fic/sentence route. These prompts come from the "Avatar: The Last Airbender" community, so if they look familiar… well, that's why.

Also, I heartily invite anyone who wants to continue this AU to do so. Because I'd love to see more of it. XD

**Warnings: **AU. OOC-ness, due to the AU-ness. Fluff. Not my best work. Lack of a chronological order.

**XXX**

**Adoption Papers**

_A Collection of AU Sentences and Ficlets_

XXX

**01: Comfort **

Sebastian Michaelis wasn't used to dealing with children, let alone frightened ten-year-olds who had recently been orphaned. Telling the young boy he was sorry for his loss sounded so callous and impersonal; babbling platitudes was meaningless and patronizing. And while he had no desire to remain sitting in an awkward silence with the boy, Sebastian had no earthly idea how interact with this petite stranger.

It'd help if the child would give some indication of how he felt about… well, the entirety of this situation, but no—he remained blank-faced and mute, choosing to simply watch the winter countryside go by beyond the window.

Sebastian's gloved hands tighten around the car's steering wheel. "I suppose I should introduce myself, shall I…?" he ventured warily, auburn eyes flicking between the highway and the child beside him. "My name is—"

"I know who you are," the boy intoned flatly, gaze decidedly locked upon the English landscape. "You're my father's old butler. And you got dumped with me because no one else in my family wanted to take me in."

Sebastian blinked swiftly, a little taken aback by the bitterness in his new charge's tone. "But that's not entirely true, is it?" he corrected, trying to sound gentle. "It's not that the Middlefords did not want you, it's that your father left explicit instructions that you should be left to m—"

"Don't lie," Ciel snapped, curling his thin arms more tightly around his person. Coiled up as he was, he almost looked too small to be sitting there without a booster seat… "I lived with them for a while, you know. I know they didn't want me. They were liars, too… and I hate liars."

Another hush, uncomfortable and heavy. Sebastian considered turning on the radio, but thought better of it; he didn't want the child to think he was attempting to shut him up.

"…so are you still a butler?" the little one asked after a few moments. The query was accompanied by a brief perusal with a single sapphire iris; Ciel's right eye was hidden behind a gauzy white bandage. Apparently, he had been injured when the robbers had broken into his family's home and…

Sebastian cleared his throat. "I am."

"That's a rather archaic job," Ciel mumbled, dismissive. Sebastian almost missed the curtness; he was rather busy being impressed by the pre-teen's vernacular. "Are you quite certain you can afford to keep me on whatever meager salary you're making?"

And—_finally_— there it was. It was faint, but Sebastian was quite proud of his hearing… and he knew what he had heard: a subtle but definite _crack_ in the child's voice. Weak and masked, but true emotion (true _trepidation_) nevertheless.

The butler smiled softly, feeling himself relax a bit. For all of his thorns, he was still just a scared child… "Not to worry, Ciel," he reassured soothingly, shooting the boy another brief glance. "I won't be sending you anywhere else. You're home, now."

Ciel arched a single, sardonic eyebrow.

"…well, you will be, once we reach the manor," Sebastian corrected, sounding somewhat sheepish.

The boy snorted, muttering darkly under his breath. But even as he grumbled, his thin lips betrayed him: they had quirked into a tiny grin, growing as his tensed body visibly relaxed.

**02: Kiss  
**

"Um…"

Sebastian watched the squirming twelve-year-old with an expression of mild curiosity painted upon his features. Before him, Ciel was blushing brightly, almost _writhing_ in his dinosaur-print pajamas. His toes curled and uncurled in his drooping socks; his hands were fisted in the fabric of his shirt. He was clearly a man on a mission, but what sort of mission was, for now, a mystery.

"…yes?" the butler prompted after a spell, his feather duster pointedly half-raised—just like his brow.

Ciel swallowed. Whined. Turned a darker shade of magenta. And then—

With a violent tug of his caretaker's front, the little boy yanked Sebastian down to his level; thrusting himself onto his tiptoes, he briefly brushed his lips over the older man's cheekbone.

"_Good-night-Sebastian-sleep-well-see-you-in-the-morning_."

And with that garbled goodbye, Ciel scampered into the darkness, leaving a very confused—and equally pink—Sebastian in his wake.

**03: Soft  
**

"That kid's turnin' you soft," Bard snickered, casting Sebastian a knowing glance from over the many pots and pans on the kitchen stove.

The butler, in return, shot the chef a withering glare. "He is doing no such thing," he retorted with a haughty sniff.

"Whatever you say…" the blonde snorted, rolling his eyes as he lit a cigarette. "But two months ago, you would have killed anyone who'd tried to put a ribbon in your hair…"

Sebastian coughed, clearing his throat with a flush and a glower. "It was a present," he explained (protested) weakly. "And he said it matched my eyes."

**04: Pain  
**

"Bashed your knee on the coffee table? Did you hurt the table? Oh, I'm teasing… no, Ciel, don't cry. See? You're okay. Let me put a band-aid on it… There. All better."

**05: Potatoes**

"No dessert until you finish your supper," Sebastian decreed, even as Ciel hissed and spat. "And you can sit there until you've cleaned your plate."

"But I hate potatoes!" Ciel complained, kicking and fidgeting in the dining room chair. His caretaker ignored him, choosing instead to begin clearing his own dishes; noticing this, the child saved his energy, and instead began sculpting a castle out of the white globs of mashed spuds that he refused (on principle) to eat.

**06: Rain**

"Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, did we, Ciel?"

The eleven-year-old glanced briefly up from his soggy cereal, glum of face and pouty of lips. "No…" he grunted in response, twisting away from the sweatpants-clad Sebastian and his mug of fresh coffee. "It's raining."

His caretaker cocked his disheveled head. "So?" he prompted, taking a careful sip of his steaming beverage. "What's that got to do with your sour attitude?"

Uh, _everything. _"You said we could go to the park today," Ciel explained— in a tone of great exasperation, for wasn't it just like an adult to be so stupid? "But we can't if it's raining."

"…why not?"

Ciel tilted his head to find Sebastian looming above him, looking genuinely confused. "There's no rule that says we have to stay inside," the older one pointed out, shrugging vaguely. "I didn't buy you that raincoat for nothing. Besides, I bet we have the whole park to ourselves in weather like this."

Sebastian beamed, amused by the child's expression of awestruck wonderment. "Right, then," he concluded, setting aside his empty coffee cup. "Finish your breakfast and get ready."

Ciel did so with great enthusiasm.

**07: Chocolate**

"_Ciel! _I said no dessert until you finished your supper! Get out of the candy cupboard!"

**08: Happiness  
**

His knees were scraped, his clothes were muddy, and his eye patch was starting to slip… But the eleven-year-old was too excited to notice, squealing as he raced down the soccer field and jumped into his coach's waiting arms.

"Did you see, Sebastian? Did you see— I made a goal!"

Sebastian—too choked up to speak—nodded, and cheered, and swung the laughing boy in exuberant circles, so proud he thought he might cry.

**09: Telephone  
**

"Hello?"

"_Yes, is Sebastian Michaelis available to speak?_"

"I'm sorry, he's out right now. Can I take a message?"

"_Oh, are you his son?_"

"…"

"_Hello?"_

"…yes. Yes, I am."

**10: Ears  
**

"I cannot believe you pierced your ears, Ciel!"

"You didn't have to drag me out of the mall! You totally embarrassed me!"

"_I _embarrassed you? You look like a girl!"

"I do not!"

"You didn't even ask permission, first…"

"I'm fifteen! I can do what I want!"

"Think again, young man!"

**11: Name**

"Dad, can you please pass the salt?"

"Of course, here you g—"

Sebastian froze, salt shaker in his hand and arm half-extended. He blinked once, startled.

The fourteen-year-old, in turn, shot his surprised caretaker an inquiring glance, face contorted in the classic 'are you insane?' expression that all teenagers utilize at least once a day. "…are you okay?" Ciel then asked, as if the significance of the moment had been entirely lost upon him. And perhaps it had; perhaps he hadn't even noticed what he'd said.

But Sebastian had, and he was finding it more and more difficult not to smile like a crazy person.

"Yes, I'm fine. Fantastic, really. I apologize; here you are…"

**12: Sensual  
**

"Who's she, Sebastian?"

"_Ciel!"_

Sebastian (as well as his guest) leapt about a foot in the air when the little head popped up from behind the couch, dressed in footie pajamas and toting a large stuffed rabbit.

"What are you doing down here? I put you to bed three hours ago!" Sebastian snapped, scowling at the little boy who was now busily attempting to scramble over the back of the sofa. With a wriggle of his tiny behind, the tiny ten-year-old toppled (rather pointedly) between his caretaker and the brunette stranger, giving the curly-haired lady a suspicious once-over.

"…she looks like she's part of the circus," the child sniffed disapprovingly. He scooted all the closer to Sebastian, as if trying to guard him, or hide him from sight. "She wears enough makeup to be a clown."

"Ciel!" Sebastian scolded, trying to simultaneously frown at the boy and shoot his date an apologetic look. "That was both rude and uncalled for! Tell Miss Beast you're sorry."

"No."

"_N—? _Now, you listen here—!"

"It's alright, Sebastian," Beast interrupted with a flustered half-smile, apparently unsure whether she should be offended or amused by the boy's antics. As she made her decision, she busily adjusted the straps of her top, making sure they were all properly fastened… "I'm sorry, Ciel. We've never been properly introduced, have we? My name is Beast. Sebastian has told me all about you."

"Has he?" Ciel's retort was as biting and cold as his one-eyed glare. "Funny. He never mentioned you."

Beast lowered the hand she'd jovially lifted; her smile was becoming decidedly more forced. Sebastian, meanwhile, was hiding his head in his clenched fists.

"Well… um…" The young woman cleared her throat, and she tried to play nice. Tried to remember that this little boy had recently gone through a great deal of emotional trauma; tried to remind herself that it was only natural that he should be so protective of his new guardian. It would be in everyone's best interest if she tried to be his friend... "You were actually right, earlier. I do work at the circus."

"Are you part of the vanishing act?" the little boy drawled, unimpressed. "Because I'd sure love to see you disappear."

Beast's pale face instantly became as red as her lipstick. "…alright, well, let's call it a night, shall we?"

**13: Death  
**

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Mmm."

"Did you want to… go visit their graves?"

"Not really."

"Alright."

"…would you come with?"

"If you wanted me to."

"…okay."

**14: Sex  
**

Sebastian blanched as soon as the question had fallen from Ciel's lips. He knew this day would come, but oh, how he had dreaded it…

"Er, well… when a man and a woman… um… care a great deal about each other…"

**15: Touch**

"I don't care if you want to or not—you are going to hold my hand as we cross the street, and that's final."

**16: Weakness**

Mayelne tried—with very little success—to hide her giggles behind her hand. "I like your new hair bow, Mr. Sebastian," she complimented with a grin, and was tickled all the further when her coworker blushed and muttered something about his adorable new charge.

**17: Tears**

"… you know," Sebastian said quietly, lowering himself onto the edge of Ciel's bed. "It is okay to cry, if you wish. I know you must miss your mother and father…"

The ten-year-old glanced up from his poetry book, head tipped in evident bewilderment. "Why would I cry?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, I have you, don't I?"

**18: Speed**

Sebastian hadn't known how fast he could run until he heard it— the scream, the crash, and the sickening silence.

**19: Wind**

"Look at the kite I made in art class, Sebastian! Can you help me fly it?"

**20: Life**

"Alright, first you spin the spinner, and then move your little car token."

"Should I start on 'college' or 'career'?"

"College, of course! In today's day and age, you need to obtain a proper education if you ever hope to—"

"Sebastian?"

"Yes?"

"I wanted to play a game, not be lectured at."

"…sorry."

**21: Jealousy  
**

"Alright, Ciel. Look at me— _look at me_—that's better. Now, tell me honestly. Why don't you like Miss Beast?"

**22: Hands**

Sebastian's shoulders slumped as he sighed, eying the multi-colored handprints that made a mosaic of the wall. "Did some finger painting today, did we, Ciel?"

The little boy (who's face boasted more hues than a melted rainbow) looked duly impressed. "How'd you know?"

**23: Taste**

"It's delicious!"

"You're lying."

"No, really. It's very good!"

To prove his point, Sebastian stuffed another spoonful of Cocoa Puff-infused scrambled eggs into his mouth (choked back a grimace) and swallowed. And Ciel, bedecked in an oversized and food-stained apron, couldn't help but smile.

**24: Blood**

"Ciel, are you alright?"

Dazed from his fall and decidedly winded, Ciel turned his bleary eyes from the tree he'd been climbing and instead focused on Sebastian's panicked countenance. There was a teardrop of blood seeping from his temple, oozing slowly down the pale expanse of his face; the child hazily remembered smacking his flailing elbow into something seconds before a pair of arms caught him. There'd been a crack, and he remembered half-thinking of how painful it had sounded…

"Sebastian…?" he croaked dizzily, trying to hear his caretaker over the pounding of his adrenaline-charged heart. "Are you okay?"

Sebastian's response was a bone-crushing hug.

**25: Sickness  
**

_Knock, knock._

"Sebastian?"

_Knock, knock._

"Sebastian…? Are you okay in there?"

_Knock, knock._

"Did you catch my flu?"

_Knock, retch._

"…do you need the Puke Bucket?"

**26: Melody**"What are you humming?"the gardener suddenly asked.

Ciel, pulled from his thoughts, looked up from his collection of Legos. If it had been anyone else, he might not have answered… But he liked Finny—he was funny and kind and would play with Ciel during his lunch break. So he told him: "A song my mother used to sing."

"…Oh."

"It's very pretty," the nearby maid complimented, speaking over Finnian's guilty murmur.

"Yeah," the child agreed. He liked Maylene, also—she was pretty and smelt nice and gave him candy when Sebastian wasn't looking.

"Does it have words?" the chef pressed, crouching down to add a green brick to Ciel's plastic construction.

Ciel was rather fond of Bard, as well (which explained why he allowed him to help with his tower); he was strong and brave and made things blow up—which was pretty cool. "Mhm."

"Would you teach the lyrics to us?" Finny requested, grinning widely as he joined Ciel on the tiled kitchen floor.

The child's face immediately scrunched into an expression of suspicion and uncertainty. "Why?" he demanded, even as he shared his bricks with the gardener.

"We'd like to sing along," Maylene explained, offering the eleven-year-old an encouraging smile.

"If that's okay with you," Bard tacked on.

Ciel regarded all three with a look of solemn consideration. And then, with a brusque nod, announced: "…alright. It goes like this…"

**27: Star  
**

Ciel didn't believe in magic (not _really_), but that didn't keep him from wishing on the evening star every night.

"I love my new home," he'd whisper as he stared at the heavens from his open bedroom window. "Please let me keep it, this time."

**28: Fear  
**

"Ciel… I'm angry at you because you broke the vase. That does not mean I hate you, or that I am going to give you away. It just means that I am mad."

**29: Lightning/Thunder  
**

Little hands quivered and trembled as they clutched Sebastian's quilt, giving the coverlet (and the man beneath it) a pull-tug-shake; the butler jolted awake to find a frail, terrified face mere inches from his own, his pallid features glowing in the plasma afterglow of a lightning bolt.

"Ciel…?" Sebastian yawned, sparing a moment to glance at the clock. 2:34 AM. "What's the matter…?"

"Sebastian…" the little boy whispered, jumping as another crash of thunder ripped through the stormy spring sky, "I, um… know that thunderstorms are frightening… so if you want, I thought I could sleep in your bed with you. And— _eep!_— keep you from getting scared…"

For a brief moment, Sebastian didn't respond. Rather, he _couldn't_ respond—he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he might not be able to keep himself from chuckling. But a few moments was all he needed to compose himself; soon, he was nodding somberly, and scooting over so as to let Ciel clamber into bed next to him.

"However did you know that I needed you here, Ciel?" he inquired—somehow able to keep enough affectionate sarcasm out of his voice so as not to alert the boy to the fact that he was teasing him. In response, the child curled close, burying his face in Sebastian's chest and cuddling into him as if he were a giant teddy bear.

"I'm just smart like that," the boy then informed with a yawn.

Sebastian rolled his eyes as they both drifted back to sleep.

**30: Market**

"I want cookies."

"We're not buying cookies, Ciel. You do not need them."

"…then can I get cereal?"

"If sugar is not the first ingredient listed."

"Hmph."

"Don't pout—and don't kick your feet, either! You're shaking the cart, and you're going to hit me."

"Well, then, don't get that tomato! I don't like tomatoes."

"You like tomato sauce."

"That's different!"

"You don't say."

"I _do_ say! And I'm not gonna eat that if you buy it."

"Well, then, you'll have no dessert tonight."

"What? I hate you!"

"As you say."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…Sebastian?"

"Hm?"

"…I don't really hate you."

"I know."

"But I do hate tomatoes."

"Too bad. It's still going in the cart."

"Sebastiaaaaaaan!"

"Don't whine. And get your hand out from under the produce sprinkler—you're going to get all dirty."

"I really _do_ hate you!"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"… I really don't."

"I know."

**XXX**


	18. Goodbye xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **I wanted to write something, but couldn't get my current ideas onto paper, so I went and looked through some old plot bunnies. And I found this. But I couldn't get prose to agree with me, so I decided to make it into a fail!poem. Did I mention I have a headache?

**Warnings: **Let's pretend for a minute that season II doesn't exist, shall we?

**XXX**

**Goodbye**

**X**

"_Well then, young master…"_

**X**

He had thought  
That hand  
And the death that it wrought  
Would be swift  
And cold  
And violent

His nightmare:  
Of hell  
And the devil's dark lair  
Long replaced  
By want  
Of silence

The order  
The bow  
Rough stone on his shoulder  
The flurry  
Of cloth  
By his feet

Then a kiss  
A breath  
Like a warm morning mist  
That veils and  
Ensnares  
And entreats

Long fingers  
A touch  
That grips and that lingers  
That holds him  
And won't  
Let him leave

Eyes flutter  
Confused  
When his demon mutters  
But doesn't  
—not once—  
move to feed

With a pull  
He says  
"This was to be _painful_"  
And glares  
When he's  
Re-caught

But his death  
Butler  
Into his ear whispers:  
"Who says,  
My lord,  
That it's not?"

**X**

_He had thought  
That hand  
And the death that it wrought  
Would be swift  
And cold  
And violent…_

**XXX**


	19. Adoption Forms xxx General

**Disclaimer:** NOOOOO~

**Author's Note:** I don't know why I ever bother saying things like "I'm not gonna write any more of this idea," because those are _always_ my "famous last words."

Anyway, I blame (and thank) **goodbyemyheart** for this. Her podfic of "Adoption Papers" was _so damn cute_, I found myself wanting to write more for this series, just so she'd podfic it again. XD;

I also want to extend my thanks to **finnsrock** who provided me with prompts 21-30. :3 (As before, prompts 1-20 came from the "Avatar: The Last Airbender" community.)

**Warning:** A continuation of "Adoption Papers." Not in chronological order. Lame title is lame. OCCness because of AUness. BEWARE THE CUTE~

**XXX**

**Adoption Forms**

_Another Collection of AU Sentences and Ficlets_

**XXX**

**1: Freedom**

Ciel sat at the kitchen table for hours, staring at the crumpled letter for so long he could hardly make out the words, anymore. All the while, time ticked agonizingly by: noonday sunlight became twilight shadows, and as a bedtime gloom overtook the little white room, Sebastian came to sit beside him.

The ten-year-old did not react. Did not speak. Did not move, save for the faintest flinch when his caretaker delicately placed his own hand over Ciel's trembling fingers, currently fisted around the correspondence's ivory envelope.

"…the choice is yours, Ciel," the butler murmured, placating and soft. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to move back in with the Middlefords. They are your family, after all…"

His voice trailed off, colored by ever-present understanding. And as his reassurances faded into silence, the boy blinked once, as if startled from a trance. But when he slowly lowered the letter, casting Sebastian a veiled glance, it was not an expression of gratitude that he wore. Rather, he looked markedly offended.

"...did you_ really_ think I was considering it?" he asked after a long moment, pale brow furrowing in quiet confusion and single blue eye narrowed in a soundless show of hurt. "That's not why I… I mean, aren't _we_ family now? Wouldn't you have… have even _tried_ to stop me?"

It was Sebastian's turn to look distinctly startled. _Is_ that _what he was waiting for…?_

"…oh, Ciel."

With a tender chuckle, Sebastian lowered himself to his knees, crouching before the little boy's chair. With a ginger touch, he pried the note and envelope from the child's quavering grasp and instead held his hands in his own, gracing his charge with a watery smile.

"If you love someone," he explained gently, giving the boy's fist a subtle squeeze, "you let them go, if they wish to leave. But that doesn't mean that you _want_ them to leave."

Ciel's chin wobbled, and he began chewing his bottom lip in an effort to keep it from quivering as well. "I don't want to leave…" he whispered, voice cracking in an effort to stave off tears. "But I… I thought maybe you had called them, or…"

The young preteen's whimpers were suddenly muffled by the butler's shoulder, and Ciel was only-too-happy to surrender to the hug.

"I can understand why the Middlefords would want you back," Sebastian murmured, resting his cheek against the downy crown of the boy's head. Ciel's response was a questioning hiccup, even as he burrowed all the closer to his caretaker. "They've realized what a great kid you are. I'd want you back, too, if I'd been stupid enough to let you go in the first place…

**2: Devotion**

…but I promise you, Ciel. I would never be that stupid."

The butler pulled back half an inch, brushing the boy's unruly bangs behind his ears with an affectionate touch. "Stay, please."

Ciel swallowed thickly, sniffling as a single pearly tear slipped beneath the leather of his eye patch.

"…okay."

**3: Forever ****(lyrics by The Veronicas)**

"_Come on baby, we ain't gonna live forever~ Lemme show you all the things that we could do! You know you wanna be together, and I wanna spend the night with_— Sebastian!" The embarrassed squeal was followed by the clattering of a dropped hairbrush, and a scramble to find an extra clean shirt. "What're you doing home so early?"

It was an inquiry that Sebastian had a difficult time answering, busy as he was collapsed against the bathroom door, laughing hysterically.

**4: Home**

"So this is where you live, is it?"

Looking up from the baseball he was tossing, Ciel flicked his gaze towards the nearby fence. A petite blonde was leaning against it, watching the smaller child with hungry aquamarine eyes. Ciel recognized the stranger as the neighboring manor's young heir, a boy his age named Alois.

"I don't live here," Ciel answered politely, though warily. He didn't particularly like meeting new people in the best of circumstances, and he had heard suspicious whispers about the Trancy family... "This is where my caretaker works. When I don't have school, I spend the days here with him."

"Oh?" Alois cocked his pretty head, flashing Ciel a bright (albeit faintly disturbing) grin. "Then where _do_ you live?" he sweetly asked, sounding just a little _too_ interested.

"…I'm not sure I want to tell you," Ciel confessed after a moment of guarded hesitation, and then quickly toddled off.

**5: Confusion**

"…and then Lizzie kissed me," the fifteen year old concluded, eyes on his twiddling thumbs in a desperate attempt to keep from meeting Maylene's probing (and half-blind) stare.

"Kissed you?" His affirming nod was answered by a deafening, girlish squeal, so enthusiastic that it all but resonated through the walk-in closet that the pair was hiding in, having their impromptu heart-to-heart. "Well, that's _wonderful_, Ciel!" the maid then squeaked, cheeks flushing an excited shade of pink as she jovially clasped the teen's folded hands. "Although," she tacked on sheepishly, gracing the boy with an understanding smile when he finally chanced a glance upward, "I can understand why you might not… how did you phrase it? 'Feel anything'? She is your cousin, after all. I wouldn't worry too much about it. Perfectly normal~"

The auburn-locked beauty beamed, wholly confident that she'd managed to sooth her pseudo-son's fears.

And Ciel didn't have the heart to correct her.

"…um, yeah. Yeah, I guess that might be it…"

But he doubted it.

**6: Bonds**

"Bonds?"

"And stocks!" Bard confirmed, giving the butler a brisk nod. "Believe me, he'll thank you for it, one day."

Sebastian arched a single eyebrow, opening his mouth to protest—but in the end, decided he hadn't the time or energy to get into a fight with an idiot.

Maybe Finny would have a better idea of what to get an eleven-year-old for Christmas.

**7: Technology**

"Look, Sebastian, it's all quite simple. You have a little keyboard, see? You just slide it ou—no, _slide_. It's not a flip phone. Stop pulling, you'll break it! Alright, here, let me do it. There. Okay, so you use this little keyboard to type a messa— …wait, what did you do? A phone shouldn't just _die_ like… okay, you know what? Maybe you should just stick with the normal post, hm?"

**8: Gift**

"…bonds?"

"And stocks!" Bard added with relish, nudging the child in a meaningful sort of way. "Good stuff. You can use 'em to save for college!"

Sitting beside the Christmas tree, Ciel cast Sebastian a subtle, but visibly bewildered sort of stare. What was he to do with this? He didn't even know what the numbers _meant_. Neither did Maylene or Finny, who had (coincidentally) just opened identical gifts, and were now clearly plagued by the same questions. They, too, shot Sebastian a bemused glance.

The butler shrugged, then immediately waved a prompting hand.

"Oh, yeah… uh… thanks, Mr. Bard."

"Yes, thank you, Bard~"

"Wow, this is great!" Finny cheered, excitedly waving the papers above his head. "Though I've, er, never heard of this company…?"

"Yeah, neither had I," Bard admitted, chewing cheerfully on the end of his cigarette. "But it sounds legit, right? I doubt Stocks-R-Us would steer me wrong, you know?"

"Um…"

_Well, if nothing else,_ Sebastian thought privately as he watched the little comedy unfold, _those notes will be good fodder for the Yule log. _

**9: Smile**

"Come on, now, kid. Would it kill you to smile?"

"Not sure. Don't want to risk it."

"Oh, please smile, _do_," the red-haired photographer keened, wriggling a patchwork doll before the twelve-year-old in an encouraging sort of way. It rather had the opposite of the desired effect. "Don't you want to make that delectable morsel of man-meat happy? I'm sure he wants a nice picture of you to hang in the living room, or some-such…"

Upon his wooden stool, already highly uncomfortable (and, thus, annoyed) from having been stuffed into starched and ironed foppery, Ciel arched an eyebrow. "_I beg your pardon?_" he asked scathingly, sounding simultaneously incredulous and disgusted. "That delectable morsel of _what?_ Are you talking about Sebastian…?"

But the photographer—who's name, according to his tag, was Grell— had already floated off into the happy realm of daydreams, giggling and molesting his doll as if it were the dark-haired man sitting out in the studio waiting room.

"…a nice picture that will come _crashing down_ as he—and me— against the wall~!" A girlish titter, one that (somehow) managed to make Ciel blanch _and_ blush.

"What the hell does that even _mean?_"

"Oh, maybe he'll let me take a nude picture of him, while we're at it… That would make _me_ grin, oh yes~"

…dear God.

Now wondering if he'd ever be able to smile again, so mentally scarred was he, Ciel leapt to his feet as quickly as his pinch-heeled leather shoes would allow. "You pervert, you're worse than Alois!" he snapped as he did so, hopping off of his chair and tromping towards the exit. "I'm getting out of here. _Sebastian!_"

**10: Innocence**

_Knock, knock._

"Ciel…? Ciel, can we talk?"

"Go away!"

Outside the ten-year-old's locked bedroom door, Sebastian lowered his hand and sighed. "Ciel…" he tried again, sounding very tired. "Ciel, I'm sorry I didn't believe you. Mr. Faust from next door came over and confirmed your story—he said he saw Alois steal your baseball and throw it through the observatory window."

"Yeah, he said that because _that's what happened!_" the boy in the room spat, his scornful screams muffled by a pillow. "But _you_ said that I was lying!"

"I didn't _see_ Alois," Sebastian tried to explain, running a hand exasperatedly through his hair. "I just saw you, looking startled and running away. It was… fairly damning evidence, you have to understand." From his pocket, the butler retrieved the ball in question, giving the worn and yellowing leather a bitter once-over. "But you're right," he then admitted, lobbing the toy a few inches into the air and watching it spin. Every so often— depending on which way the ball rotated— the name 'Ciel' would appear in smudged ink. "I should have trusted you when you said you hadn't done it. I know you hate liars, so there's no way you'd lie to me… I hope you can forgive me."

Silence.

But then, after two excruciating minutes, there was the sound of tentative creaking. A dubious sapphire eye peeked through the newly created gap between the door and jamb.

"…wanna play catch?" the half-hidden Ciel mumbled, still a bit miffed, but clearly tired of fighting.

Sebastian smiled. "I would like that very much."

**11: Completion**

"Ta-da~"

Looking very pleased with himself, Ciel smugly showed the three servants his completed Lego creation—a sculpture he'd constructed out of every brick in his collection. Nearly as tall as he was and easily twice as wide, it was a colorful tower of random turrets (and equally random ledges) that had a tendency to totter dangerously if anyone stood too close. Not surprising, since it was only three bricks thick.

"Ooo~" Finny cooed, applauding the ten-year-old. Maylene looked similarly impressed.

Bard, on the other hand, gave the structure a more thorough inspection before offering comment or opinion. Ciel waited patiently for the chef's final judgment, watching as the scruffy blonde tilted his head and blew a misty spray of smoke from between his lightly pursed lips. "D'ya plan on being an architect when you grow up, kid?" the cook then asked, ruffling Ciel's already-mussed hair.

The boy considered this query, proudly perusing his plastic palace as he did so. It was starting to waver and whine, but in a beautiful sort of way. All the same… "No," Ciel happily proclaimed, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. "I'd rather be a demolitionist!"

Bard nodded sagely. "A far wiser call," he praised, patting the child's shoulder.

The merry foursome then pushed and knocked and kicked the tower into oblivion.

**12: Clouds**

"What do you think that one looks like?"

"…a cloud?"

"You're not very good at this game, are you, Ciel?"

"What? It's a _cloud!_ That's what it's _supposed_ to look like!"

"Oh, come now, don't get angry! I was only kidding."

"Hmph."

"…"

"…I guess it looks like mashed potatoes, too. Or whipped cream. Kinda. How's that?"

"…"

"Well?"

"…have I ever told you, Ciel, that you are one special kid?"

"Why does that sound less like a compliment and more like you're teasing me?"

"I've no idea. Now, how about some ice cream?"

**13: Sky**

"Yes, this is Sebastian Michaelis. I'm calling about my… my son, Ciel—he's in your class. Apparently he's recently been bullied by another girl in his grade? …what do you mean, what do I want? I want you to _do_ something about that, obviously!"

**14: Heaven**

"Okay, we're here. Are you ready? Yes? Then open your eyes!"

With great enthusiasm, Ciel did as he was told—and instantly froze.

It was spectacular— a rainbow world of edible delights pulled straight from the pages of Roald Dahl, and the sight nearly brought tears to his eyes. All along the tiered walls were lollipops (spherical and circular and square) and gummies (worms and bears and disks and other shapes that he couldn't quite identity, but appreciated nevertheless), toffees and caramels and so many types of chocolate he'd probably need a lifetime to sample them all. Fudge was being cooked in the back of the store; the scent drifted through the air like the most saccharine of perfumes. There were jawbreakers in boxes, made in nearly every conceivable shape and size, and barrels overflowing with jellybeans, organized by hue and flavor. In display cases beside the wooden crates, rock candies glistened like sugary stalagmites in the rosy glow of the sunny sweets shop.

With concerted effort, Ciel managed to stop salivating long enough to look up at Sebastian, eyes shining with excitement and a single, lingering question.

His caretaker chuckled. "You have a fifty dollar limit," he answered, giving the child a small (and wholly unnecessary) nudge towards the candy. "Happy birthday, Ciel."

**15: Hell**

"Ewwww—what happened to _him?_"

"G—give that back! That's _mine_—!"

"No wonder you wear this ugly patch. It's an improvement! I'd want to hide my face, too, if I looked like you."

"Please, give it back…!"

"Ugh, wouldya lookit his eye, Peter? I think I might barf!"

"Ow— give it…!"

"Ha, I've seen _roadkill_ less mangled than you! Right, Jumbo? What a freak. You're a monster, you know that?"

"No, I… give it back…"

"Aww, look, Wendy! The baby's _crying!_ Can't believe that messed-up eye o' his can do _that_ much."

"I— I'm not _crying!_ Give me back my eye patch!"

"I don't even wanna be touching this—it's probably gross from being on you, alla the time."

"Throw it in the mud, Dagger! Yeah!"

"There, you got your stupid eye patch back!"

"Hahaha~ c'mon, guys. Let's go before the teachers show up."

**16: Sun**

"_Oh, Mr. Sun! Sun! Mr. Golden Sun! Please shine down on meeeee~!_"

"Finny, I don't think it's working."

"Well, of _course_ not. Everyone knows that two people need to sing the song to make it work!"

"…lemme get Maylene."

"It works _best_ if a little boy helps sing it."

"I think you're full of crap."

"That'd be easy enough to prove… if you'd try it out, once."

"…"

"C'mon, Ciel… you know you waaaant to..."

"…oh, alright. Just this once."

"Yea!"

"_Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun…_"

"_Please shine down on meeee~!_"

"_Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Go_— Finny! Finny, look, the rain's stopped!"

**17: Moon**

Sometimes, when the weather was warm and promised to stay so, Sebastian and Ciel would walk home from the manor, enjoying the violet-hued dusk and the other's quiet company.

**18: Waves**

"Ciel! _Ciel!_ Hi!" The three servants whispered, chirping and wiggling their fingers in the dark auditorium, trying to get the attention of the little boy on stage. Ciel, for his part, professionally ignored the trio; Sebastian, on the other hand, not-so-professionally jabbed them in the sides.

"Hush, now! The play's started!" he hissed, affectively silencing the exuberant threesome.

But when he was sure his companions weren't watching, he shot Ciel an eager wave, too.

**19: Hair**

"Hmmm…"

"What'sit?"

Sprawled comfortably across the couch (with a half-asleep Ciel snuggled bonelessly atop his chest), Sebastian looked away from the television set and instead turned his attention to the silvery locks that he was running his fingers through. "Your hair is getting a bit long, there, little one," he commented, twining a few strands together in a musing sort of way. "Perhaps you should go see the barber, soon."

"Ngh…" the eleven-year-old grunted, not sounding all-together pleased by the prospect. "Dunwanna. My hair's not long…"

"Ciel, I can practically braid it."

"Just the bangs…" the boy protested, propping his chin up so as to meet his caretaker's amused stare. "And they're not nearly as long as yours," he pointed out, readjusting his arms so as to grab a fistful of Sebastian's ebony forelocks. "Or maybe I should just get you some more ribbons…"

The two engaged in a momentary stare-down, as if sizing the other up. Then—slowly and simultaneously—they loosened their grasp on the other's bangs.

The subject was dropped. They returned to watching their TV program in a comfortable, cuddly silence.

**20: Supernova**

"Bard, what's a 'supernova'?"

"This for homework?"

"Mmm."

"It's when something in the sky blows up."

"So what's it called when something on earth blows up?"

"Supper."

**21: Dandelion **

"Then you prick a tiny hole in one stem, thread another flower through it…"

Ciel watched, utterly transfixed, as Sebastian carefully laced one butter-yellow blossom through another, forming a bright, woven chain out of the colorful spring weeds.

"…and there! You have a crown."

The butler grinned as he dropped the flora circlet atop the startled twelve-year-old's head, chortling when the boy's instantaneous response was a noisy sneeze.

"You're welcome."

**22: Shrubbery**

"Sebastian? What're you… Are you watching Monty Python _again?_"

**23: Lint**

"Are you sure you went through your pockets, first?" Sebastian asked, brow arched as he watched Ciel dump the contents of his laundry basket in front of the washing machine. In reply, the thirteen-year-old rolled his eyes and let loose an exasperated sigh.

"_Yes_, Sebastian, I did."

"You better have," Sebastian threatened, bending to scoop up a few dark shirts that would fit in with the current load. "'Cause anything I still find in them is mine, you know."

"Yeah, whatever," Ciel mumbled, unrolling his balled up socks before Sebastian had a chance to lecture him about those, too.

"Alright, then. That was your last warning," Sebastian shrugged, plucking a pair of worn blue jeans off of the floor. After a brief inspection of his own (just to double check that the pockets were, in fact, empty), he dumped the pants into the soapy water. He did the same thing to the next pair of jeans he grabbed, as well as the shorts he nabbed after that. But just as Ciel was about to leave—tossing the last of his flattened socks atop the underwear pile— Sebastian stuffed a hand into one of the boy's cargo pouches and froze. Rummaged (rather purposefully) for a second more. Then, eyes widening, he murmured an intrigued: "Oh my. What have we here…?"

Two steps from the door, the teenager paused. "…what'd you find?" he asked dully, trying to sound only half-curious. But that was rather difficult to do, what with Sebastian making such an impressive fuss over whatever-it-was he'd just discovered.

"Quite the treasure," the butler retorted dreamily, lips curling into a pleased, secretive sort of smirk. "I should thank you, I think, for not doing as you were told…"

"What? I _totally_ checked my pockets!" Ciel groused, spinning on his heel and storming back over to his caretaker. "Lemme see that!"

"Oh no _no_, you know the rules," Sebastian clucked, pulling the cargo pants closer to his chest and swiftly shaking his head. "This little present is mine, now. Mine, mine, mine. And maybe that will teach you to take better care of your things, hm? Now, scoot—I know you've homework to finish. Go on. Off you get."

Feeling rebuked and even crankier, Ciel shot the older man a sour glare, muttering "jerk" under his breath as he stalked out of the laundry room. Nevertheless, he'd learned his lesson, and wandered off to do as he'd been told, for once.

"…"

After he was sure the boy was gone, Sebastian pulled his hand out of the grimy pocket—threw the lint he'd grabbed into the trash—and tossed the cargo pants in with the rest of the dirty clothes, humming amiably to himself.

**24: Vinegar**

"Actually, before you eat one of those cookies, Sebastian, I meant to ask— what's the difference baking soda and the kind of soda you drink?"

**25: Crow**

When he was ten, Ciel made a birdfeeder in art class out of an empty gallon of milk. Proud of his charge's creation, Sebastian had hung the feeder in the back garden, hoping it might draw in some songbirds. To the bewilderment of both men, however, the only birds that the contraption attracted was a flock of friendly crows, who immediately took a liking to the little house and refused to leave—even after they stopped refilling the feeder.

"I guess crows just like you," Ciel had commented offhandedly, trying not to laugh when one such bird alighted itself onto the butler's head. "It could be worse, though, right? They could be vultures or something. Or pterodactyls!"

Sebastian had shot his charge a faintly amused, but mostly exasperated stare. "…they can't stay forever," he then decreed, as if to comfort himself.

Maybe not, Ciel acknowledged, but they certainly seemed willing to try. He was sixteen, now, and the crows were still there to welcome him home every day.

**26: Inner Tube**

"Are you holding on tight, Mr. Sebastian?" Maylene giggled, readjusting her sunhat and peering at her coworker from over the rim of her prescription sunglasses.

From the center of the large inner tube that they had attached to the back of Bard's little speedboat, Sebastian shook his head. They hadn't even started moving yet and he was already turning a sickly shade of green. "…I don't think I want to do this…"

"Oh, c'mon, Sebastian!" Ciel (looking far-too-adorable in his big orange life vest) encouraged, bouncing animatedly and nudging against his caretaker. "This'll be fun!"

The butler, however, looked less than convinced. Rather, he looked highly anxious. Double-checking to make sure that the twelve-year-old had a proper grip on the rope didn't help calm his nerves, either. "I don't think we define 'fun' in the same way, Ciel… Maybe I should—"

"Too late now!" Finny sang, shooting Maylene a knowing glance before turning to the blonde at the helm. "Hit the gas, Bard!"

**27: Cement Block**

"What're you up to, Ciel?"

"I'm drawing a picture."

"I see. Well, now, I recognize you and me… oh, and there's Finny and Bard and Maylene. But who is that?"

"That's Beast."

"…is it really. And what, dare I ask, have you drawn around her feet?"

"That's a cement block."

"…"

"And those blue lines above her head? Those are waves."

"…"

"She's sleeping with the fishies."

"…perhaps you should go to your room."

"What? Why? Maylene thought it was a good idea!"

**28: Ant Hill**

"_The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah,_" Ciel mumbled to himself, crouched beside a sandy ant hill and watching—spellbound—as the little brown insects scurried back and forth, back and forth. And as he did so, the boy half-wondered if, someday, he—a creature equally as tiny and weak-looking—might grow to be as strong as the ants.

**29: School**

"How was school today?" Sebastian asked pleasantly, sitting beside Ciel at the kitchen table. Gulping down a mouthful of gooey chocolate chip cookie, the boy offered a vague nod and told him, "'Salright. How was work?"

"It went well, thank you," the butler replied just as genially, folding his hands atop a spare napkin.

Ciel eyed Sebastian.

Sebastian eyed Ciel.

"…you first, or me?" Ciel grunted, discarding his affable façade just as easily as he had his dinosaur backpack. Sebastian's response was an irritated groan, scrubbing his face with his hands before yanking his fingers through his rumpled hair.

"Sometimes I just cannot _stand_ those three imbeciles—!"

"The teacher got mad at me for correcting her when she made a dumb math mistake. I wasn't rude or anything! And it was _her_ fault for being an idiot!"

"And then that accursed _Claude_ fellow (God, I _hate_ him!) appeared at the door, spouting these lies about me and acting like a horrid _creep_…"

"Then they were all out of chocolate milk at lunch, a third-grader stole my swing, and during art class someone broke my clay sculpture!"

As one, the two men released heavy, shoulder-heaving sighs, biting back the remains of growls and curses. And while their frustrations might still be tangible, at least they were out in the open— which helped, if only because they no longer had to _act_. Thus, in the wake of their verbal barrages of anger, the two glanced up to catch the others' gaze, reveling in their unspoken camaraderie.

"…how about tacos and a movie tonight, little one?" Sebastian suggested with a half-smile, half-sigh, slumping wearily atop the table.

In reply, Ciel gave his caretaker's head a sympathetic pat, running his fingers through Sebastian's hair in the soothing way that the elder man often played with his own. "That sounds like it'll help."

**30: Chocolate Pretzel **

"What're you eating?"

"The last of my birthday candy. It's a chocolate covered pretzel."

"Ah, your favorite."

"Mhm. Here."

"…for me?"

"Yup."

"Well… thank you. Any reason why?"

"Candy tastes better if you share it."

"…that's very sweet."

"It's chocolate. It's supposed to taste like that."

"That's not what I meant."

"Huh?"

A soft chuckle. Lowering himself to sit beside Ciel on the porch stoop, Sebastian popped the rest of the candy into his mouth and pulled the boy into a one-armed hug.

"I love you, you know that?"

Ciel— notably startled, mouth ringed with chocolate and cheeks turning crimson— ducked his head to hide his delighted beam. Then he nodded, and wriggled, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like: "I love you, too."

**XXX**


	20. Adoption Requests xxx SebaRachel

**Disclaimer:** I don't ooooown~

**Author's Note:** Once again, **goodbyemyheart** is to be blamed. Or thanked. Or both. XD Also, I extend my gratitude to **fanfic100** for these prompts.

**Warnings:** AU-related OOCness. Not chronological, but (mostly) takes place before "Adoption Papers"/"Adoption Forms." Contains an homage to "Lightning" (which was posted exclusively on my LJ). Edited in a rush. More substance than previous parts of the series, and a bit more angst, but still pretty fluffy… Prepare for some canon-related jokes and (gasp!) het, as well.

**XXX**

**Adoption Requests**

_A Third Collection of AU Ficlets and Sentences_

**XXX**

**01: Beginnings**

"I… beg your pardon, sir?"

From behind the lacquered expanse of his mahogany desk, a smartly dressed businessman lifted his head and offered a warm, toothy grin. A bright and wholly cheerful expression to begin with, the lovely young man's chipper appearance quickly became more so upon noticing his butler's mounting horror— pale features tightening and russet eyes wide. The master chuckled, resting his chin atop lightly steepled fingers. And while his lashes had already half-obscured his doe-brown irises, they did nothing to hide the mirth within.

"You heard me, Sebastian," the gray-locked millionaire said serenely, perfectly pleasant and wholly unfazed, even as his manservant (who was looking distinctly weak in the knees) lowered himself into a nearby chair. It was an entirely uncharacteristic response from Sebastian, who had always been the perfect butler… but Vincent let it slide without teasing (just this once), due to the nature of the announcement he'd just made. "Though really, you needn't act so histrionic. You _do_ have a flare for the dramatics, my friend…"

Sebastian allowed himself the liberty of a dry stare. "My apologies," he drawled—in much more his usual way, though he still hadn't managed to find the strength to stand, yet. "But it is not often I am called into my master's office and told 'I am going to die.'"

"Really?" the Earl of Phantomhive (or, rather, the man who _would_ have been the earl, if such titles existed in this day and age) returned conversationally, decidedly jovial. "I can't see why not. We're all going to die, someday, aren't we? And to that end, one must make the proper arrangements…"

With a musing sort of hum, Vincent pushed himself to his feet, fingertips gliding over the glossy surface of his desk. Sebastian watched him from the corner of his eye, confusion increasing as his employer leisurely turned towards the window. In the world beyond the glass, the limpid spring sun was fighting to break its way through the gray clouds of London. "…I can't give you the details, I'm afraid," the older man murmured after a moment, squeezing the hands he'd clasped behind his back. "Though I know you're intelligent enough to realize that the Funtom company is nothing more than a clever cover for… a more delicate business."

The butler said nothing. He was, indeed, that intelligent. Which was one of the reasons he'd been hired in the first place.

"And, as in any business," Vincent continued with a flippant sort of sigh, "you never know when things are going to turn sour." He shook his head as if in deep regret, and though his general expression remained lighthearted, his lips were pursed in noticeable distress. "'Til the present, the danger of my trade has meant little to me. But now that Rachel is pregnant…"

"The lady is _what?_"

The note of shock in Sebastian's tone pulled his companion out of his musings; Vincent chortled, nodded, and turned to face his butler once more, visage haloed by a flickering ray of light. "Indeed she is," he affirmed, looking faintly proud despite his continued concern. "Come December, this dusty old house will feel just a little fuller. And to that end, I must ask a favor of you, my friend…"

**02: Middle**

Sebastian Michaelis wasn't yet used to dealing with children, let alone attention-seeking babies who were always desperate to be held.

"Young master, I really haven't the time," the butler began—all while knowing it was useless to attempt to reason with a 10-month-old. A baby was still hardly _human_ at that age, unable to do much of anything besides eat, defecate, and waddle; trying to explain the concept of chores to the bitty creature clinging so plaintively to his leg was about as pointless as teaching astrophysics to penguins.

"Gwaph~" the young master (an adorable boy named Ciel) gurgled, beaming up at the butler he'd taken hostage. He tried to give Sebastian's pants another pointed tug, but his chubby grip was as weak as the rest of his body; he had soon tumbled onto his bottom, sapphire stare never leaving Sebastian's face.

Though it did, of course, fill with tears when his tiny bum hit the floor.

"Oh... no, no don't cry," the butler pleaded, kneeling to scoop the child into his arms. While he no longer panicked at the sound of snuffling, Ciel's cries remained one of his least favorite sounds in the world— simultaneously frustrating and heartbreaking. Thankfully, Sebastian found him easy enough to pacify; a little rocking and a bounce or two against his hip was all it generally took, and today was no exception. "There, there... Alright, then, you win, little one. I suppose I only need one arm to dust, anyway."

**03: End**

"_Baschan—!_"

It was an almost _unearthly_ yowl, high-pitched and banshee-esque as it resonated off of the painted walls and lofty arches of the mansion foyer. The screech was accompanied by a torrent of tears, the snotty sobs and watery wails of a typical two-year-old mid-temper tantrum.

"There there, love. Calm down, now, pet," the little boy's mother tried to soothe, but her quietly quivering voice was no match for her son's keyed shrieks, nor his anxiously straining arms. She almost dropped him more than once.

"_BASCHAN—!_"

"You're sure you know the way?" Vincent was asking equably, holding the butler's baggage as he buttoned his black wool coat. "It'd be no trouble to send Tanaka along, have him help you find your new residence…"

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary," Sebastian returned courteously, tipping his head in lieu of a full bow. He then gracefully readjusted his collar and took his suitcase from his former master. "It has been a pleasure working for you, si—"

"Please, Sebastian," Vincent interjected, waving his hand in a glib sort of way. "The pleasure was entirely mine. It's truly a shame I have to let you go." He sighed heavily, shaking his head as he buried his fists in his back pockets. But after a moment, he was wearing his signature smirk again. "Of course, I won't be the only one who misses you…"

As if cued, Ciel let loose another insatiable bawl. "_NO, MAMA— WAN BASCHAN!_" he screamed, thrashing so vigorously that Rachel was likely to find herself bruised when she next put him down. It made Sebastian wince just to watch… though he made a point of avoiding eye contact with either the lady or her son.

"If I may take the liberty to say so," the butler mumbled under his breath, trying not to think about how unprofessional it was for him to be saying this, "I fail to perceive the danger you insist exists in this house. You claim you are dismissing me for my own good, but I am afraid I see this as nothing more than a blemish on an otherwise spotless resume."

Vincent snorted, a sound almost lost amongst the shrill keening of his child. "I assure you, Sebastian," the older man teased, clapping his ex-servant on the curve of the shoulder, "if I am ever called for a character reference, I shall give you the very best. But I can't have you here anymore, understand? I need you out there, safe… just in case."

"_BASCHAAAAAN!_ NO!_ NO NO NO NO!_"

Sebastian bit his bottom lip, heart wavering as his eyes tried to do the same. "But… he needs me here. _Now_," he weakly protested, even as he cursed himself for allowing such emotions to get the better of him. (And _no,_ that was _not_ a tear in his eye—he just hadn't had a chance to clean the chandelier before leaving, so there must have been something in the air…)

Vincent smiled sympathetically, but as always remained firm in his decision. "If my hunch is correct—and my hunches often are— they'll come a day when he needs you _more_," the dark-haired man whispered, resolute and low. "Until then… well, I shall just have to invest in a pair of earplugs, won't I?"

**04: Inside**

"Oh… yes— _yes!_ Right th—_ah! Sebastian—!_"

Upon the pristine ivory carpet of the nursery floor, the pretty pallid blonde writhed and gasped and moved against her husband's butler, kissing him just as frantically as he kissed her.

"_Rachel_…" It was a silken hiss, colored by love and guilt and passion and self-loathing as a familiar, tinny lullaby floated through the air.

In the cradle beside the rosy window, Ciel slept under an idly spinning mobile.

**05: Outside**

"You know," Angelina began blithely, teacup half-way to her leering lips as she cast the butler a sidelong glance. "Sometimes I think you're too good to be human, Sebastian."

The butler, distinctly amused, offered a small half-bow of gratitude, but was careful to keep his face impassive. "I thank you for the compliment, doctor," he breathed, straightening as he returned to his self-appointed watch over the garden gazebo and those gathered beneath it. Sitting across from the forever-vibrant Angelina was the porcelain Rachel—a vision in her summer dress of cream and periwinkle, cradling the dozing three-month-old she had bundled in her arms. Sebastian's gaze softened visibly at the sight, and he was reminded of religion and artwork and Renaissance portraits of Madonna and child. "…but I assure you, I am just as human as you are."

And so distracted was he, Sebastian failed to notice that Angelina's claret eyes had softened with the same heartfelt emotion whist looking upon him.

"Indeed."

**06: Hours**

"One… two… three… up!" Rachel sang, and as one she and Sebastian lifted the toddler off of the leaf-strewn path, swinging him avidly back and forth as they clung to his chubby fists. And Ciel, content to play this game for hours and hours, shrieked with joy and garbled "Mo'! _Mo'!_"

**07: Days**

Prior to the addition of the young master, Sebastian never realized how _fast_ the days could fly—winter melting into spring, spring into summer, summer into fall, and before he knew it fall was transforming into winter once again.

**08: Months**

"Aww, what a cutie! How old is he?"

"He turns six months today."

"He is absolutely _adorable_. I bet you bring him here just to show him off!"

"Oh, no. This little one is like a dog—he lives for his daily stroller ride through the park. Showing him off is but a bonus."

"Haha, oh my… look, he just giggled! Oh, I could just eat you up, love, I really could! I don't blame your daddy for being so proud of you~"

"Hm? Oh, no, I'm not—"

"Anyway, thank you for humoring my mothering tendencies. Though—oh, I've got to get going! I've a job interview for a position as a nanny. It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Sebastian."

"Likewise, Miss Paula. Best of luck during your interview."

**09: Years**

Eight years was such a long, long, _long_ time…

"Ciel Phantomhive…?"

The battered ten year old—sullen and silent atop his brown plastic chair—glanced up at the sound of his name, single blue eye (so much like his mother's) dull and once-smiley lips set into an acerbic glower.

Sebastian sucked in a deep breath and wondered vaguely what he'd gotten himself into.

**10: Red/Orange/Yellow/Green/Blue/Purple /Black/White**

"Young master, crayons are more effective on paper than they are on your tongue."

**11: Colorless**

"I just… I _can't do this_ to him anymore, Rachel. I can't do this to _either_ of them…"

He swallowed thickly, fingertips trailing up and down her tear-stained cheek, even as he tried to let her go.

**12: Friends**

"Oh, Sebastian. So _serious_," Vincent laughed, wearing a teasing scowl in mimicry of his butler. "You needn't always act so formal, you know. I'd much rather be your friend than your boss."

Even after five years, Sebastian was never entirely certain what to say in response to pronouncements like this. In the end, he settled for a hesitant, "Thank you…?"

Which simply encouraged Vincent's chortles.

**13: Enemies**

"Sir, I have apprehended the targets," Sebastian announced into the walkie-talkie, giving the intruders he'd recently bound a swift kick for good measure.

**14: Lovers**

It wasn't that she didn't love Vincent—no, that really wasn't it. She just loved Sebastian so much _more_, and Rachel had never been very good at hiding her feelings.

**15: Family**

"Isn't this supposed to be a _family_ trip to the beach…?" Sebastian asked warily, even as he handed his master the picnic basket he'd packed. Once it had been unloaded from the car, he started to disentangle the fold-out chairs from the umbrella, and handed his mistress a beach ball to inflate. "I must wonder, then, why I was invited…"

Vincent grinned, slapping his butler genially on the back as he unbuckled Ciel from his booster seat. "It's _because_ it's a family trip that you were invited," he then explained, sliding his sunglasses off of his nose and instead slipping them onto the startled Sebastian's face. "Now, let's impress the kid, shall we? I order you to help me make the grandest sandcastle on the beach."

Despite himself, the butler couldn't help but smile. "Yes, my lord," he chuckled, playfully readjusting his newly-acquired shades.

**16: Strangers**

The pair collided with the sound of splintering glass, clattering metal, and whining plastic. Jarred fingers loosened around rubber-padded handles; baskets went flying and potential purchases soared through the air— falling with cracks, shatters, and thuds against the tiled linoleum floor.

"Pardon me," Sebastian apologized dourly, kneeling to collect the groceries he'd once had so neatly organized, but were now a higgledy-piggledy pile of dented cans and bruised produce.

"Oh, n- no! The fault was mine! I didn't see you there…" the girl before him trilled, pushing her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose and bowing in abject apology. Sebastian regarded her with a cold stare; by the cut of her outfit, it was clear that she was the maid of some family in the area, and a new one at that. "H- here, let me help—!"

She immediately stepped on a carton of eggs, slipped on the spilled yolks, and crashed into a carefully crafted display of jell-o boxes.

"…I think you've helped quite enough, thank you," Sebastian sighed, and privately prayed that he'd never have to deal with staff like that in any house in which he was employed.

**17: Teammates**

"May I join you?" the butler asked graciously, holding aloft a cup of tea and a small plate of homemade biscuits.

Looking up from his seat by the window, the elderly gentleman beamed and responded with a welcoming, "ho, ho, ho."

**18: Parents**

"What were your parents like, Sebastian?" Rachel asked curiously, rolling onto her back and craning her fragile neck. From her unusual, upside-down vantage point, she watched the butler dress as she combed lazy fingers through her wavy gold locks, cozy and comfortable in her mussed nest of sheets.

Sebastian paused as he fixed his cufflinks, contemplative.

"I am not entirely certain," he then confessed, twisting a fraction so as to shoot his mistress an apologetic glance. "They never spent much time with me."

_What?_ "But… that's horrible," the young woman scowled, looking properly put-out. Dejected, her half-lifted hands collapsed against the mattress; the flaxen curtain of curls she'd been toying with tumbled over the edge of the bed, glossy and unrestrained. "Work can always wait, but you can't stop children from growing, you know?"

The butler smiled, chuckling gently. "Well, I'm happy _you_ realize that, my lady," he murmured, bending low to press a butterfly-kiss against the curve of her increasingly-round belly.

**19: Children**

"…he isn't yours."

With a noticeable start, Sebastian spun towards the nursery door— though one hand remained decidedly twined around the bars of the wooden cradle, as if hesitant to let go. Rachel, in turn, stood in the entryway: perfectly composed, perfectly serene, perfectly stunning. Just like always…

The poised blonde offered the butler an unconvincing grin, and Sebastian could see (beneath the polished veneer of her customary mask) that she wasn't entirely certain how to proceed, now that the truth had been vocalized. Should she act contrite, or perhaps congratulatory, or…?

"I know he isn't," Sebastian replied— just as calm— before returning his attention to the crib. "He has the master's distinctive ash-gray hair, as well as his handsome bone structure. Any fool could see that he is a Phantomhive, through and through."

Said Phantomhive sniffled in his sleep, a pudgy hand curling beside his cheek. And as those five minute digits folded into a fist, an equally small leg jerked. Kicked. Ciel's star-encrusted comforter shifted as he wriggled, exposing his stocking-covered feet; Sebastian tucked the squirming baby back beneath his blanket's warmth without so much as a second's pause or delay.

And Rachel, watching this, clenched her hands above her heart, feeling it ache as her cerulean eyes grew wet. "Seba—"

"He does not need to be mine for me to care about him, does he?" Sebastian interrupted, the query as soft as the gaze he cast his mistress. When she did not respond (apparently silenced by surprise), he replaced his brief and flickering glance with a brief and flickering smile. "I am happy that he is the master's," the butler then added, in a tone of genuine— albeit faintly pained— honesty. "The last thing I need is another reason to hate myself for…"

He trailed off, unable to bring himself to name their sin. And Rachel, in turn, nodded her understanding, though that didn't stop her from sidling beside him and slipping her hand through his own.

"For what it's worth," she then breathed, further twining their fingers together, "I think you'll make a wonderful father, someday."

But even before she spoke, Sebastian was shaking his head— chuckling quietly in mild (but affectionate) exasperation. "Please don't say that," he chastised, alabaster skin glowing an ethereal shade of white as the summer rainclouds suddenly parted, relinquishing their hold on the harvest moon. Its silvery light broke through the lace curtains of the window, collecting as puddles and pools of indigo mercury around their feet. "You know that I have no desire for children… unless they were with you."

Rachel could say nothing in response to this, and in lieu of words allowed her wilting head to fall to rest against his shoulder. It was a pleasure that she could not afford— but nor was it a pleasure that she could deny, not when Sebastian's lips skimmed so tenderly over her temple, her ear, her cheek, her throat…

**20: Birth**

Her husband (as usual) was off on business when their son was born, and was unable to visit the hospital until the following day. But Rachel didn't mind. Rather, it gave her an excuse to hold Sebastian's hand, and a beautiful fantasy to focus on as she was battered by wave after wave of seemingly endless pain.

**21: Death**

Vincent was too involved in the service, and Rachel was too stricken by grief, so the task of holding Ciel during Angelina's funeral fell to Sebastian. It was a job that he dutifully performed, and— as always— carried out with an impressive degree of success… But whenever the baby _did_ start to fuss (be it from discomfort or hunger or exhaustion), the butler couldn't help but lament that he was too young to cry over his aunt, who loved him so dearly and was no longer around.

**22: Sunrise**

"And what are you doing awake, young master?"

The toddler standing in the crib blinked once, acknowledging, but offered no answer. Instead, he lifted his plump little arms and waved them in Sebastian's direction, gurgling and cooing and grinning at the sight of his favorite person.

**23: Sunset**

At the end of each day, Vincent made a point of finding some time to spend with his son, whether it be a quick game of peek-a-boo or a picture book that Ciel would eagerly slap and spit over.

**24: Too Much**

"You don't really think you're going to eat all of that, do you?" Rachel teased, and the sound of her bell-sweet titters caught the birthday boy's attention. Ciel looked up from the pastry he'd just patty-caked into oblivion, giggling and smacking his frosting-covered hands together as he further smeared himself with chocolate frosting.

**25: Not Enough**

"…I think I may require another bottle of shampoo," Sebastian announced flatly, kneeling beside the gilded tub but still just as wet as if he were inside of it. Ciel squealed, unconcerned, as he slapped the bubble-encrusted water and sank one of his toy boats. A family of rubber ducks were also caught in the mini-tsunami's wake, but they were fast to float back… probably attracted to all of the cake crumbs and glitter glue that Sebastian was trying (without much success) to scrub out of his young master's hair.

**26: Sixth Sense**

He wasn't sure what made him turn around, but Sebastian was wholly thankful that he did so. "Young master!" he gasped, all but diving for the toddler tottering on the edge of the staircase. Like most things, Ciel thought Sebastian's alarm was a game, and babbled gleefully as he was swept up into the older man's arms.

"I do not think you are quite ready to tackle the steps," the butler admonished, aware that the reprimand fell upon deaf ears. Oh well; it's not as if the rebuke held much bite, anyway—it was hard to stay annoyed when the infant nuzzled so earnestly into his chest.

**27: Smell**

The even creaking of the rocker, the slumbering snivels of the baby, the delicate warmth of his body, the sweet scent of powder and soap that perfumed the star-lit nursery… It would have been enough to lull a chronic insomniac to sleep; the poor butler stood no chance at all.

**28: Sound**

"What is the matter, young master?" Sebastian asked dotingly, the hushed inquiry drowned out by the babe's whimpered sobs. "Did your mobile stop? Is that why you cannot sleep anymore? Here, allow me…"

**29: Touch**

"_Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker's man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can_," Rachel chanted, holding up her petite palms and allowing the toddler to slap merrily away at them, laughing all the while. "_Roll it, and pat it, and mark it with a C, and put it in the oven for Ciel and me!_"

"Kake!" the almost-two-year-old cheered, teeming with giggles as his mother dove in to tickle his rounded tummy. "We kake!"

"Indeed, we do," Sebastian agreed, appearing unexpectedly in the open patio doorway. Ciel released another excited shriek upon seeing the butler, crawling towards him just as fast as he could; Rachel beamed, equally happy but hiding it (a little bit) better, as she looped loose strands of curling hair behind her ears. Sebastian grinned and offered a courteous bow. "My lady, it is time for tea."

**30: Taste**

"I— I beg your pardon."

Blushing brightly, Sebastian quickly averted his gaze; beside Ciel's crib, Rachel was swiftly turning the same shade of rose-red.

"Sebastian! I, um… didn't expect you to find the burping cloth so fast," the pretty blonde garbled, hastily trying to fix her blouse and cradle her son at the same time. It was a rather fruitless endeavor—Sebastian didn't need his eyes to see that—and was soon offering to hold the recently-fed baby, if only to give his mother a chance to properly cover herself.

"Thank you…" Rachel said sheepishly as the butler took control, deftly patting Ciel's tiny back and encouraging him to burp. "I still haven't gotten used to this breastfeeding bra and… um… I guess I didn't really need to tell you that." Her ruddy china features turned a darker shade pink, endearing in her embarrassment.

Sebastian, in turn, chuckled weakly, trying to look anywhere but at his master's wife. (The speckled ceiling was actually quite fascinating, if you gave it a chance.) "Never mind, my lady," he comforted. "You've no reason to be flust—"

It was then that the butler realizing something both good and bad. On the plus side, the boy leaning against his shoulder had just made a very healthy (and very wet) burping nose. Job well done, and all that. Unfortunately, in his haste to help his mistress, Sebastian had forgotten that he'd left the burping cloth slung over his arm.

_Of course._

"…oh dear." Rachel, ever animated, was having a difficult time hiding her growing grin; the butler was having a similar problem, though he was busy attempting to mask disgust and self-directed irritation. Both were successful to a degree, though it took Sebastian a considerable amount of extra effort. Conversely, the young woman— while still fighting against the overwhelming desire to laugh— also felt sincere remorse for the fate of Sebastian's expensive suit coat, and was thus able to redirect her energies to fussing over that. "Oh, no, Sebastian, I'm so sorry…"

"It is not your fault," Sebastian assured, gingerly handing the half-asleep infant back to his mother. The butler also offered the cloth he'd brought, and Rachel quickly cleaned Ciel's face before putting him back to bed. He was unconscious again before his head hit the pillow.

"But I feel right _awful_ about this… I should have said something, but I didn't. And I'm sorry, but your facial expression was just— oh, here, come with me, I'll try to rinse it off for you," Rachel proclaimed, and with an insistent tug began leading the butler down the hall, heaving him into the master bedroom despite Sebastian's mounting protests of "my lady, you really needn't concern yourself" and "I am perfectly capable of washing it on my own…"

"No, I want to help," the blonde said definitively, and she had always been such a _stubborn_ thing; the butler sighed, recognizing that he had no choice in the matter. And so, as always, he found himself surrendering to the lady's whims. He allowed her to spin him around and assess the damage; did not object when he was dragged into the attached bathroom; did not complain when she almost wrenched his arms out of their sockets while trying to disentangle him from his coat; did not protest when she accidentally soaked the front of his white ironed shirt, splashing water everywhere when she threw his jacket (without ceremony) into the overflowing sink.

"…I've just made things worse again, haven't I?" Rachel bemoaned a good ten minutes later, lowering herself to her knees as Sebastian crawled about on the floor, mopping up her mess with a spare towel from the closet.

The butler made a sound that was _almost_ a snort, but was still somehow urbane. "Well, you do have a way of keeping things interesting, my lady," he returned, wringing out the sopping cloth in the bathtub. "But it is alright, I can certainly…"

The sentence died with a falter and a flush, Sebastian's eyes widening as they fell fully upon the young woman beside him. "…mistress, you never finished buttoning your blouse."

"Huh? Oh!" Looking down with a gasp and a jump of horrified realization, Rachel clasped her hands over her exposed chest and laughed awkwardly, even as her gaze was inexplicably drawn to Sebastian's. "Goodness me, I… I was so distracted by your jacket that I… um… I'm sorry, I— oh my, let me fix it…"

But by that point, nerves had long-since taken their toll. Heady blood rushing from humiliation, shock, and other emotions that made her heart race, Rachel was no longer able to keep her fingers steady; they tripped and trembled over the slippery pearl beads, making it impossible to slide the buttons through their proper holes. Even still, she tried, and tried, and tried again, fumbling frenetically until—rather suddenly— her hands were stilled.

Startled, Rachel looked up to find Sebastian's face mere inches from her own, his larger palms easily encircling the entirety of her fists, encasing them in a tentative embrace. What little air had caught in her throat seemed to vanish all together, leaving her lungs (and other parts of her body) on fire…

"…here," the butler murmured, low voice breathless as his auburn eyes smoldered, slicing through the shadows like twin embers. Unruly strands of his ebony forelocks brushed against her cheeks, just as his words tickled the flesh of her temple. "Allow me."

Long, loving fingers trailed timidly upward, touching buttons and sternum and whispering over the curvature of a partially exposed breast… And soon Rachel's hands were once again fisted around buttons: yanking the small plastic disks from the butler's moist shirt as they tumbled wantonly backward, limbs tangling and mouths moaning and lips fervently locked…

**31: Sight**

"Where is the young master…?"

The six-month-old burbled, staring in bewilderment at the gloved hands currently floating above his head. But when the slim fingers parted, his delighted yelp was enough to make anyone smile.

"_There_ he is!"

**32: Shapes**

Sebastian watched, faintly amused, as Ciel tried obstinately to jam a square-shaped block through a triangular hole in his tiny toy peg board. When a wandering maid attempted to assist him in the task, he yowled angrily until she left; the butler rolled his eyes with a chortle before returning to his chores.

"Just as mulish as his mother... what a fun teenager he'll make."

33: Circle

"_Ring around the rosy…_"

"Mistress, I… I know it is not my place, but…"

"_Pocket full of posies…_"

"Must you play that game with the young master?"

"_Ashes, ashes…_"

"It is about the plague, you know, and as such is a horrible topic to sing about…"

"_We all fall down!_"

"I would hate for him to have nightmares."

**34: Star ****(Lyrics by Gregory and the Hawk)**

"_If you be my star, I'll be your sky. You can hide underneath me and come out at night…_"

Lulled by the familiar melody, the toddler yawned and wiggled and curled more tightly around the singer's hand, holding it like a teddy bear.

**35: Heart**

"You love Rachel, don't you?"

"Sir?"

Behind his half-raised newspaper, Vincent chuckled and grinned, flashing his butler a heartening glance. "It's alright, Sebastian," he then reassured, flipping the crinkling pages of the daily rag. "I can hardly blame you. In fact, if I were a better man, I'd let you take her and Ciel far, far away from here…"

His employer sighed, stretched, and tossed his reading away, lifting his empty tea cup in a wordless request for a refill. Sebastian did as he was told without question, though his mind was now full of them.

**36: Diamond**

"You look lovely," Sebastian complimented reverentially, bowing low before his mistress. In response, the glittering vision that was Rachel Phantomhive beamed, nodded, and stooped down to kiss her son goodbye, leaving for the theater with a wave and her husband.

**37: Water**

"You know, little one," the butler said—amusingly conversational— as he regarded the infant splashing around in the sink, "I appreciate the help, but I am perfectly capable of washing myself."

**38: Earth**

"Look! Look, Ciel! We made a… a… " Exuberance fading ever-so-slightly as she tried to figure out what, precisely, she and the two-year-old had made, Rachel squinted and considered the muddy sculpture. "A mound of dirt!" she eventually decided, throwing up her arms in parody of her son. "Isn't that exciting?"

**39: Air**

"He'll probably have asthma," Angelina announced with a somber sigh, stuffing her stethoscope back into her lab coat pocket. The toddler in Sebastian's arms coughed feebly, sucking in a raspy breath; Rachel wrung her worried hands, close to tears and still on the verge of a panic attack.

**40: Breakfast**

"Open wide for the airplane, Ciel…!" Rachel cooed, bringing an undulating spoonful of oatmeal to the baby boy's messy mouth. But, as before, the little one refused to 'open wide,' instead staring impassively at his mother and the gummy paste that she was trying to make him eat. "Oh, come now, love," his mum tiredly cajoled, pulling back the spoon in preparation for another go. "Just try a little, pl— hm?"

She glanced up, surprised, when Sebastian's gloved hand fell upon her shoulder.

"If I may take the liberty," the butler said smoothly, folding the apron he'd been wearing over his arm, "the young master prefers trains to planes. With your permission…?"

Without a word, Rachel handed him the spoon, watching inquisitively as Sebastian proceeded to bring the oatmeal back to Ciel's lips, moving the utensil in the same undulating manner that she had. "Come now, young master," he then coaxed. "Open up for the choo-choo train…"

At the sound of the first "choo," Ciel's eyes (and mouth) widened with delight. He swallowed his breakfast with notable pleasure.

"There, you see?" the butler concluded, handing the oatmeal-less spoon back to his stunned mistress. "It's all quite simple."

"…you really are amazing, Sebastian," Rachel praised, accepting the plastic utensil and dipping it back into the bowl, merrily feeding the now-eager toddler. "Sometimes I wonder how you do it…"

"Oh, such a feat is hardly impressive," Sebastian returned easily, amusement in his voice as the jolly infant gurgled. "After all, as a servant of Phantomhive, it is only natural that I should know how to care for my young master."

**41: Food**

"Young master, what are you—? No, get that out of your mouth! That food is for the dog, not for you!"

**42: Drink**

"That _wasn't_ an invitation to play in the dog's water, little one!"

**43: Winter**

Bedecked in a puffy white snowsuit and a pom-pom laden hat, Ciel looked more like a discarded snowball than an infant child as he watched his mother and butler build him a snowman.

**44: Spring**

"Then you prick a tiny hole in one stem, thread another flower through it…"

Ciel watched, utterly transfixed, as his mother carefully laced one butter-yellow blossom through another, forming a bright, woven chain out of the colorful spring weeds.

"…and there! You have a crown."

Rachel grinned as she dropped the flora circlet atop the two-year-old's head, giggling as he released an enthusiastic squeak. He then immediately sneezed, yanked the crown off, and attempted to eat it.

"Very impressive work, my lady," Sebastian commended, tugging the bitter buds from the baby's mouth and admiring his mistress's (slightly gnawed) handiwork. "Might you be able to teach me how to make such a crown?"

The lovely blonde beamed. "Of course!"

**45: Summer**

"Please stop your squirming, young master. You shall get sunburned if you don't let me put lotion on your nose…"

**46: Fall**

"Up high, Ciel! Up high! Wheee…!" Rachel sang, nimbly lobbing the laughing little boy up and down, up and down, amidst the swirling crimson leaves.

**47: Passing**

Sometimes, it was too painful even to look at each other when they passed in the halls.

Other times, Sebastian would allow the back of his hand to brush, just-so, against his mistress's— more of a teasing breath of air than an actual touch, but telling all the same.

And once in a while, when Rachel could stand it no longer, she would stall the butler with her body: accidentally-on-purpose running into him just so that she could feel his warmth pressed against her.

**48: Rain**

The young master was a force of nature in and of himself, and nothing—not wind, not hail, not sun, nor showers—could stop him when he got going.

Though on days like this, Sebastian lamented, he rather wished the latter would at least slow the two-year-old down… he'd only just finished cleaning up the mud from _last_ week's adventures in the rain.

**49: Snow**

"Tilt your head back and say 'ah,' Ciel! Come on, pet, try it! See? Mummy caught a snow flake on her tongue. Can you do it, too?"

**50: Lightning**

There was lightning on the walls (again), and Rachel was afraid (as always), and Vincent wasn't home (like usual), and Sebastian couldn't bear to see her scared, or sad, or _oh_, no, he shouldn't, _they_ shouldn't, but_ ah_…

**51: Thunder**

"There, there, young master, do not be scared… Oh, listen—you are far louder than that silly old thunder. It should be frightened of _you_, not the other way around!"

**52: Storm**

It was storming on the day they first met—when Rachel opened the manor door and there he stood, suitcase in hand, respectfully tilted forward as he murmured a modest sort of greeting.

It was storming on the day she first noticed— became fully aware of the way he made her heart leap into her throat, and her pulse echo so loudly in her ears that it obscured even the most deafening claps of thunder.

It was storming on the day he first kissed her— velveteen lips brushing oh-so-tenderly across the cut she'd given herself, the paring knife nipping her finger when a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.

It was storming on the day they first made love— their shadows intertwining as the pounding rain silenced their gasps, their groans, and their desperate, three-word confessions.

It was storming on the day that he left—though her son undoubtedly shed more tears than any raincloud could ever hope to produce, sobbing ever-harder as the day turn to night and the night turned to day.

It was storming on the day that she died—or, at least, the day that he heard of the Phantomhives' deaths, and the only thing that kept Sebastian from drowning in sorrows of his own was the knowledge that the little boy who'd cried for him was still alive… out there, somewhere, waiting in the rain.

**53: Broken**

"What's the matter, mum?"

"Hm?" Still notably dazed, Rachel nevertheless managed to tear her gaze away from the foggy bay windows, distracted from the summer storm clouds she'd been watching roll in. Behind her, framed by his old nursery doorway, the six-year-old Ciel offered his mother a quizzical look. "Oh, hullo, dear. I'm sorry, I was just thinking..."

Biting her bottom lip, Rachel twirled her marriage band around her finger once, twice, three times, and then forced a smile for her befuddled son.

**54: Fixed**

"And… _there_." With an elegant flourish, Sebastian lifted the freshly patched footie pajamas, giving Ciel the opportunity to scrutinize his handiwork. "How does that look, young master?"

The one-year-old blew a spit bubble, chewing on his bitty finger.

"I am glad they meet with your approval."

**55: Light**

"You needn't carry him around like that all of the time, you know," Rachel told the butler, watching with poorly suppressed amusement as Sebastian's rag sent a fine spray of dust into the misty air, and Ciel—cooing in the older man's arms—tried to catch the glittering particles as they twirled and spun in the golden light of the study.

**56: Dark**

Ciel wheezed, Rachel fretted, and the whole house seemed so much _darker_ than it had mere days before.

**57: Shade**

The dappled light of midmorning filtered through the summer trees, casting leafy shadows of forest-green and dark emerald upon the grass. Heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and lavender, the impish west wind danced a mischievous waltz through the blossoming garden, running invisible fingers through waxy petals and loosened locks of flyaway hair. Beneath the sheltered rustling of the old oak tree, Rachel and her baby son lay in a tranquil slumber, smiling as the butler kept silent vigil over them both.

**58: Who**

"My lady, do—?"

But Rachel was already shaking her head, trembling hands fisted over her still-flat stomach.

**59: What**

Sebastian froze. Gawked. Turned mechanically around, eyes automatically dropping to the kitchen floor. Near his feet, a small child wearing a tupperwear bowl on his head was staring readily back at him, admiration in his eyes as he hugged the butler's pant leg.

"…what did you just say?"

The eleven-month-old flashed the startled Sebastian a jubilant grin, one strap of his jean overalls dragging behind him on the floor. And then he squealed again: "Da!"

**60: Where**

"And where do you think _you're_ going? Oh no, don't think that innocent face will work on me, young master. You know that you are not supposed to be crawling around the servants' quarters."

**61: When**

He wasn't sure when, but Vincent knew that—someday— business would catch up with him. And if no one else, he wanted to save Sebastian from its repercussions.

**62: Why**

Sometimes, he wondered why everything he loved belonged to his master. But— more often— Sebastian wondered why he'd never hated his master, despite that truth.

**63: If**

"With all due respect, sir," Sebastian frowned, shooting his employer an abnormally incredulous look, "I am merely a butler. In the event that anything should happen to you or your wife, it would make far more sense for the child to be given over to the Middlefords, or the lady's younger sister. While I am… _flattered_ that you consider me a suitable candidate, I hardly think I would be qualified to raise a child, should the need—God forbid— ever arise."

Vincent listened to his servant's sensible objections without speaking, amiable eyes sweeping leisurely up and down the ashen countenance of his half-panicked employee. "…are you quite finished?" he asked lightly, once Sebastian's tirade seemed to have worn itself to a close. Sebastian, a bit jadedly, nodded. "Good. Now then, I'll need you to sign here…"

"Sir, did you hear a thing I just said?" the butler dryly intoned, markedly exasperated now. "I really don't think—"

"Sebastian," Vincent interrupted lazily, twirling the fountain pen that he had, 'til that moment, been holding aloft for the other's use, "how long have you known me?"

"Five years, sir." Sebastian's response was immediate.

"Indeed. And in that time, have you ever _once_ seen me rush into a decision?" the young man prompted, arching a single thin eyebrow.

"…"

"Well, Sebastian?" he pressed, leveling his friend a pointed stare.

The butler sighed heavily before admitting, "…no, sir."

"Exactly so," Vincent nodded, dropping his pen—with a metallic clatter— atop the collected pile of documents. "Sebastian, I have, of course, thought of my sister, as well as Rachel's. But Ann, I fear, is too consumed by work and the desire to have a child of her own to have merited serious consideration on my part. As for Frances, well…" He cleared his throat delicately, and for an instant a dark and rather sour expression overtook his pleasant features. "While I love my sister, I am afraid she loves my money and position in the government more than she does my family. I would not want my child to be subjected to that, you understand?"

Sebastian supposed that he did. "Even so, why _me?_" he demanded, his horror only partially mollified. It was still quite a jump from family to hired help, after all.

Vincent, for his part, looked mildly surprised that his decision merited further explanation. "Because I _know_ you, Sebastian," he then said simply, as if the answer was entirely obvious. "And I trust you. You don't just care about my family because you _have_ to—you care about us because you are a good person. And you will continue to care, even after you leave my employ."

The butler couldn't argue with that. But that didn't mean he was prepared to adopt his master's child, should the need ever arise.

Vincent sighed, lowering himself behind his desk and folding his hands over the contract. "I am not going to order you, Sebastian," he told his servant good-naturedly, tolerant and patient as the butler continued to dither. "It is simply my wish. In the end, of course, the decision is entirely yours… should the choice ever need to be made."

Silence.

"…if that is so, sir," Sebastian finally managed, voice still faint after a minute of soundless thought, "might I ask to wait and make my choice as necessity dictates?"

In reply, Vincent tucked the papers and pen back into his desk. He then granted Sebastian his leave.

**64: And**

And he could never tell him—no, not ever. Could hardly bear the _thought_ of what the 10-year-old might say if, someday, he were to discover his caretaker's secret… Though (sometimes) Sebastian wished he could use the past to bolster the boy—comfort the jealous child, hug him close and promise, _no, I do not, would not, could not love Beast more than you_, even if he _wanted_ to, because it was impossible to give a heart to someone when that heart was already bursting with love for another. _And my heart will always belong to your mother, Ciel, and there is no one in the world who I could possibly love more than you._

**65: He**

"It is a healthy baby boy, my lady," Sebastian whispered, handing the tiny, wrinkled bundle of powdery skin to the exhausted Rachel.

In response, the new mother—hair matted with sweat and pallid skin clammy— pushed herself painfully upright, keenly inspecting the newborn despite her evident weariness. He had a pair of matching ears, a little button nose, cobalt blue irises and downy tufts of… slate-gray hair…

Sebastian said nothing when Rachel's eyes filled with tears. But all through the night, he remained attentively by his mistress's side: a consoling hand on her shoulder as she sobbed over her son.

**66: She**

She was the most beautiful creature in all of the world, so far as he was concerned— summer sunshine and moonlit nights and chiming glass bells, her amorous, soprano endearments gradually fading into alto-sweet purrs… husky, licentious moans… breathless gasps and shameless groans as she tossed her flaxen head, arched her fragile back, and clutched ever-so-feverishly at the tangled sheets and wooden bedposts. From beneath the coil of her thick, lowered lashes, she would watch Sebastian's slow descent with sparkling, lust-hazed eyes… But her smile always spoke of purest love, and he could ask for nothing more than that.

**67: Life**

"Sebastian! Sebastian, put down that tea and come over here. It's ever so exciting!"

"Sir?"

"Quickly, put your hand on Rachel's belly! The baby is kicking!"

"… sir, that sort of conduct would be highly inappr—"

"Come now! You don't mind, do you Rachel?"

"Um, no… No, not at all…"

"There, see? Come on, Sebastian! Don't make me order you~"

"…if the master insists…"

"Wonderful! Alright, here, let me scoot over. Okay, now you put your hand where mine was. Wait a moment… wait… there! Did you feel it? Sebastian?"

"…"

"Oh, look, Vincent, Sebastian is _smiling_~!"

"I— I am not!"

"Haha, I knew you had a smile in there, _somewhere_, my friend!"

"_Sir_—!"

"Oh, don't tease him, Vincent, you naughty thing."

"Would you look at that— I never thought I'd see you blush, Sebastian! And ah— look! Your antics have amused the baby, too."

"…I should return to my chores."

"Oh, stay, do!"

"Yes, stay Sebastian. The baby clearly likes you—the little thing is kicking up a storm, now!"

"… if the master and mistress insist."

**68: Work**

"…you are never going to let me finish any of my work, are you?" Sebastian sighed, shooting the little boy a dry (but affectionate) downward glance. Clinging happily— as was his wont— to the butler's crisp pant leg, Ciel responded with an impish giggle.

**69: Home**

"Why don't you come back and visit?" Tanaka suggested— wheedled—as his weathered face contorted into an expression of pointless yearning and futile hope. "It has been three years… The mistress misses your company so very much, and I know that the master feels the same."

"_I was ordered to leave._"

The elderly steward winced and sighed, readjusting his arthritic grip on the handset. "I know, but… Well, perhaps the master's hunch was wrong?" he tried, attempting to sound convincing. "Maybe he'd hire you back, if…"

But it was hard to sway a second party when you couldn't even persuade yourself.

"_As always, it was nice to hear from you, Mr. Tanaka._"

"…goodbye, Sebastian."

He didn't bother calling again.

**70: Choices**

"…_has apparently requested to leave his son in your care, Mr. Michaelis,_" the woman on the other end of the line decreed, speaking loudly over the chatter and cries of the recently orphaned. "_At the insistence of the family, we have placed Ciel in the temporary care of the Middlefords, but the Phantomhives' will states explicitly that the final decision— in regards to permanent guardianship— is to rest with you._"

Sebastian pursed his thinning lips, face as white as the knuckles he'd clenched around the telephone.

"…_Mr. Michaelis? Are you—?_"

"Yes. Yes, I am still here." The butler cleared his throat, messaging his temple with his free hand. "Um… I'm sorry, I just…"

"_I understand, sir,_" the orphanage worker soothed, though she did sound a little hurried. As well she should, Sebastian mused; there were other children and families who needed her time. He wasn't being fair, all things considered—he'd had eight years to think about this, after all. Even if he'd never dreamed that he'd actually have to make a decision…

"Does he…" Sebastian coughed again, switching ears as he drew support from the kitchen wall. "Does Ciel seem _happy_ with the Middlefords?" he inquired cautiously, not entirely sure what sort of answer he was hoping for. On the one hand, he still thought it best that the boy stay with his biological family. But on the other…

On the other…

It was the caretaker's turn to hesitate for a moment. "…_between you and me?_" she eventually muttered, lowering her voice to a gossipy mumble. Sebastian offered a prompting nod, even though he knew she couldn't see it. "_His aunt scared me, to be frank. Polite enough, but her eyes seemed oddly cold… It's well known that Ciel has a small fortune in inheritance money, and I fear… I mean, her husband didn't even seem to_ want— _Well. It's not my place to judge, but it was pretty clear to me that Ciel's time with them would only be temporary, so long as they could help it. His cousin seemed sweet, but I hardly think that enough to make things work, you know? And I don't think Ciel really meshed with them—he's a good judge of character. Tragic story, though— gone through a great deal of stress, that one… What he needs now is somewhere safe and stable to recuperate. I'm half-afraid that his time with the Middlefords will make things_ worse…"

"…indeed."

Sebastian's cinnamon eyes flicked to the adjacent living room, finding and lingering upon a framed polaroid. It hung on the furthest wall, just beside the television; he was too far away to make out the details clearly, but he no longer needed to look at it in order to see the picture. Himself, Vincent, Rachel, and little Ciel, posing beside a magnificent sandcastle on a sunny summer beach…

The butler sucked in a steadying breath.

"When's the soonest I can pick him up?"

**XXX**


	21. Broken xxx General

**Disclaimer:** I own so little it's really quite pathetic.

**Author's Note:** Oh my God, first fic from Japan~

Anyway, this was entirely inspired by **yinake**'s fic, "Entropy." And she did it better. So you should probably go read that instead. :3

**Warnings:** Sebastian being a devil. Written and edited quickly, because I no longer have any free time. :D

**XXX**

**Broken**

**XXX**

Every night, Sebastian tears Ciel to pieces.

"Young master," the butler purrs, white-gloved hands gliding over skin as soft as satin, as pale as porcelain. Fabric stalls, catches, shifts— hisses like embers as trailing fingers create friction-fire, blazing upward from buckled shoes to sagging knees. "Your feet are tired, are they not? It is so _demeaning_, such a _strain_ for a gentleman of your noble stature to be made to walk. Don't you agree? Allow me to take the liberty, then, of insuring that you need never walk again…"

With the gentlest touch, a tiny foot streaks like an inverted star through the stark-white room. A snap, a screech, a snarl; a second booted limb joins the first, skittering across the hardwood floor and spinning, spinning, spinning in concentric, dizzying circles, bouncing against the far wall and eventually sliding to a silent stop. From the base of twin ankles, what was once stored safely inside begins to surge, spill, and gush, making a foamy mess that Sebastian is, for once, happy to leave be.

The demon stands.

"Young master," he murmurs as he straightens, barely more than a slipping shadow as he touches a stationary arm. Like its pair, said arm hangs as a dead weight from an off-cream shoulder—a shoulder that vanishes beneath the ruffle and lace of dusty, archaic foppery. "You seem to have soiled your delicate hands with ink. Have I not told you time and again to be careful when signing documentation? It is ever such a chore to clean those stains… Perhaps this will keep you from being so untidy in the future."

As one, two lanky arms are yanked from their frail sockets, leaving gaping holes that ooze excretion as shredded white bits explode (as if some sort of firework) from the oval hollows that the demon has now created. The tiny body sitting atop Sebastian's bed does not so much as sway; it sits, motionless and mute, leaving little more than a wrinkle atop the butler's bedspread.

Well, a wrinkle and a pool of innards.

The devil tosses the arms away without so much as a glance to acknowledge where they land.

"Young master," he continues in a soft, sultry drawl, twisting his body to kneel behind his companion. Hands clothed in bleached cotton coil possessively around a supple chest, tiptoeing down the staircase of buttons that lead from sternum to stomach. "I am sorry to hear that supper was not to your liking. But as you are so picky, perhaps it would be easier to eat nothing?"

In an instant, one pallid glove has vanished; when it reappears, it is accompanied by all of the beautiful byproducts of swift evisceration. Pearl beads pop from their specified holes and find new homes on the dirty floor: clattering and bouncing and rolling this way and that, like dozens of bitty glass eyes.

The butler allows himself a heady chuckle, low and thick and sweet as molasses… and just as cloyingly black.

"As I thought, young master," he whispers, directly into the fragile curve of an ear— hand buried deep, deep, deep and fingers wriggling like maggots as viscera and bowels mix with buttons and laughter and thinly veiled disgust, "you are heartless after all."

He pulls out like he always does (no matter the context or situation): apathetic and vaguely bored. But soon condescendence is replaced by vindictive amusement, and the promise of future delights elicits giggles and canines. Irises of russet brown twinkle with the faintest glitter of incandescent vermillion, their ethereal gleam reflecting in the glossed rounds of his companion's unblinking stare.

The devil smiles, and for once does not bother to control how far his smirk slits his maw.

"Young master," he coos, lovingly tender as his palm lifts to caress a small, spongy cheek, "I believe it is my turn to give _you_ an order…"

The feel of his fist around that malleable throat is so utterly intoxicating, he hardly spares a moment to appreciate the sensation—

"_Break._"

—before he cleaves the small head from its body with a satisfying _riiiiiiiiiip_.

For the briefest of moments, Sebastian indulges in the afterglow of a job well done: admires the chaos that has engulfed his tiny room in the dimly lit servants' quarters.

And then, as he does every night, he pulls out his sewing kit.

He gathers up the brown felt feet, the corduroy arms, the discarded buttons; he gingerly sets the head in his hands atop his nightstand and collects each fluffy flake of cotton stuffing that has come to blanket his floor. He selects the proper colors of thread (an ashen peach, a vivid blue, a selection of dark grays and watery crimsons), laces a needle, and begins to put "Ciel" back together— fix him as only he can. Because that is the (_desire_) job of the Phantomhive butler, is it not? To break his little lord down until he is nothing more than a hundred thousand shining pieces of shattered soul… and then to stitch those pieces back together so masterfully that the world can't tell that he had ever been anything less than perfect. Day in and day out; morning, noon, and night. That has been the butler's prerogative from the very beginning— every second, minute, hour, day since the fateful formation of their unholy contract, and this cycle first began.

But Sebastian can see it. Yes, he can— no matter how flawlessly he fixes the boy, he keeps on breaking apart. Comments and whispers, commands and pleas, violence and anger and desperate, wanton writhing… each instant is a new crack in his mask, a new tear that bleeds sanity. And with every new line of stitches, it is getting harder and harder to hide how damaged Ciel Phantomhive truly is. Soon, he will (quite literally) be falling apart at the seams…

Which is just how the devil likes him.

So when Sebastian looks up— intending to pluck a fresh spool from his nightstand— and notices the stitched smile of the yarn-topped head that watches him work with black button eyes, he offers a devious grin in return.

"Young master," he then warns, pink tongue flashing along his lower lip in a blatant display of hunger, "I am running out of thread."

Somewhere far above, the breaking doll sleeps.

**XXX**


	22. Talbot Revisited xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** I get really sick of answering this question.

**Author's Note:** Poor **goodbyemyheart** is gonna get mad at me for putting off "Remember December" again, but I promise to get it done~ I just had to finish this little ficlet first.

**Warnings:** Refers directly to episodes 9 and 24 of season one. Confusing style. Written and edited in a rush.

**XXX**

**Talbot Revisited**

**XXX**

He wasn't sure what drove him to do it. At first, anyway. Wasn't certain which of the myriad of strange new motivators

_emotions_

that he had started to feel had lead him back

_home_

to the Manor after so very, very long. Couldn't quite fathom the reason he trailed through the dust, stiletto heels click-clacking over warped wood as he searched the charred corners of the decrepit home, rotting from neglect but too

_haunted_

historic for the locals to bear the thought of tearing it down. And it was just as well, for if they had, they might have destroyed the demon's treasure… and no one wanted that, now, did they?

_No._

He found the trinket he'd been searching for hidden beneath the floorboards of the study, the ancient timber evermore scarred by the weight of the mahogany desk that had once sat directly atop it. He pulled up the beams with the lightest of touches

_like the touch he'd left upon that waiting porcelain cheek_

and rustled through the cobwebbed gloom until his talons brushed against it, and the box's hollow insides sung like pine-hued chimes. With careful, precise movements, he hefted the delicate cube into the hazy sun of the antiqued room, scrutinizing it from this angle and that, making sure that nothing had broken. Nothing

_everything_

had.

_Some things, once lost, can never be returned._

With slow, deliberate moments

_so careful, so precise, spidery fingers tip-toeing up the gentle curve of an inner thigh_

the devil set his find atop the tilted remains of a three-legged table, popping its cap and waiting

_100 years_

10 seconds.

_And there was blackness, only blackness_

inside of the tiny corner closet, except for the faint red glow of his candle. He kept the crimson light low, as low as

_his spirits_

the rhythmic slosh, slosh, slosh of bitter liquids, fake-human-nose scrunched visibly against the pungent smell of escaping vapors. Unpleasant but necessary, a price he was willing to pay, for with it the stench brought the

_truth_

person he so longed to see, and it made every pain worthwhile. For a moment, for an instant. Just before it made everything

_absolutely intolerable_

worse. For still, he knew. And he had said it before: the image reflected in a picture was but an illusion. However, even if it was an illusion, wishing to hold onto it was one of the hollow dreams humans

_devils_

have. One of many hollow, empty dreams

_that lurked just-behind his eyelids, waiting patiently, like the memories of nightmares so appalling, his heart ached and yearned for them— clinging to his soul like ghosts_

that haunt those who still live. Who will continue to live

_forever_

no matter how horrible a prospect it sometimes seemed. And now was one such time, insides caving in upon themselves as the demon gingerly thumbed the glossy print he'd pulled from the chemical bath. It was such a delicate thing

_that precious soul_

the flimsy paper, and yet it managed to carry the weight of his entire world. And for a long, long while, he simply stared at the photograph: the petite arm around his shoulder, the china cheek against his temple, the satin mouth that was breathing

_whispering, as when alive, his sweet, shallow exhilarations quickly climbing the treble scale as he moaned_

into his ear, murmuring something that the monster would never again hear, no matter how hard he strained. But he knew

_he_ knew

and it made him want to

_weep_

tear the photograph into pieces. Even though he realized that he never could. After all, he was

_Sebastian Michaelis_

a devil of a butler, and a butler could never treat his master in such a way—even if it was simply his master's visage. And so, instead, he slipped the picture into his breast pocket, there to remain

_with its mate, its partner, the original snapshot—a sepia-hued scrap upon which a 12-year-old slumbered beside his obsequious servant_

for all of time. And as the moist paper touched his

_heart_

icy flesh, the demon reflected. Considered, acknowledged. For no, he hadn't been sure what had driven him to do it. At first, anyway. Wasn't certain which of the myriad of strange new motivators

_emotions, human emotions_

that he had started to feel had lead him back

_home, yes, home_

to the Manor after so very, very long. Couldn't quite fathom the reason as he traipsed through the slanted hallways, stiletto heels click-clacking when they found the shattered cobblestone of the front drive. But now, he thought he knew. And he was glad.

_For, as a servant of Phantomhive, wasn't it only natural that he should miss his young master? _

**XXX**


	23. I'm Fxxking Sebastian xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Kuro nor Sarah Silverman's "I'm Fucking Matt Damon."

**Author's Note:** **muse33** mentioned this song in a review for "Lightning," and I knew a parody had to be made. X3

**Warnings:** Thrown together in, lyke, an hour. I was pretty liberal (in terms of timing) when it came to the spoken portions, since… well, they're spoken. Fairly cheap, as a parody goes, since half the words are still the same. XD; OOCness for the sake of humor. Beware the f-word~

**XXX**

I'm Fucking Sebastian

_-To the Tune "I'm Fucking Matt Damon"-_

**XXX**

**Ciel:** Hey, Lizzie. It's me. I'm out on a mission for the queen. I've been on the road for so long, I'm not entirely certain what city I'm in at the moment, to be honest. Anyway, I've been thinking about you a lot. And, well… I've been meaning to tell you something. I'm not sure why I haven't, yet, but it's important. I mean, we've been engaged for so long—over five years—and I still haven't told you, and that's just not right. So here goes.

_**Ciel:**__ I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ It's really nothing new  
I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ I'm not imagining it's you  
I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ On the desk, on the floor, just behind the closet door, in the tub, in the stalls, up against the bedroom walls  
__**Ciel:**__ I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ While you're drinking noontime tea  
I said, I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He said, he's fucking Sebastian  
Lady Elizabeth, have you heard of the corset scene?  
_…get it? Because that tends to be when our fans got the idea…  
**Ciel:** Yeah, it's… it's funny._  
Hey Liz, please don't be hurt  
You know that we just wouldn't work  
Not only don't I like girls  
But I saw you with Paula  
And I think that you like girls enough for us both…  
Knock knock!  
__**Sebastian:**__ Who's that knocking at the door?  
__**Ciel:**__ I'mfu  
__**Sebastian:**__ I'mfu who?  
__**Ciel:**__ I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ Anaylze! F-U-C-King that D-E-M-O-N  
Say F-U-C-King that D-E-M-O-N  
I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ And this isn't just a ploy  
I said, I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ Ask the others I've employed  
__**Bard, Maylene, Finny:**__ It's true, we can all confirm that he is, in fact, fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ Remember when?  
Last week, when I ran off in the middle of our shopping trip? I was fucking Sebastian.  
Remember when?  
__**Sebastian:**__ The young master sent you home early after you traveled out on your own to see him? He was_ definitely _fucking Sebastian.  
__**Ciel:**__ Remember when?  
When I told you I was fucking Sebastian? I_ was _fucking Sebastian!  
On the desk, on the floor, just behind the closet door, in the tub, in the stalls, up against the bedroom walls  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian  
__**Ciel:**__ I'm fucking Sebastian  
__**Sebastian:**__ He's fucking Sebastian~  
__**Ciel:**__ I love London!_

**Ciel:** So, that's it. I believe I made things clear…  
**Sebastian:** Wonderfully done.  
**Ciel:** Oh, it was okay…  
**Sebastian:** It was phenomenal.  
**Ciel:** Well, in any case… You know, it was interesting while it lasted, Liz. I hope there are no hard feelings— and that we can still be close as cousins, since, you know, we _are_ family… So. If anything isn't clear, you need closure of some kind, please, _please_ talk to Maylene. I'm sure she'll be willing to comfort you in any way you wish. So take care, and—  
**Sebastian:** We're running behind schedule, young master. You'll have to stop there.  
**Ciel:** You are so _evil._  
**Sebastian:** Indeed, I am. Now, put down that guitar. You have other 'instruments' to attend to.  
**Ciel:** Right, then~  
**Sebastian:** So long, Lady Elizabeth.


	24. Skip xxx Onesided LizzieCiel

**Disclaimer:** I feel, at this point, like I really _should_ own part of "Kuro," haha.

**Author's Note:** Directly inspired by the last episode of season II. So, you know. Spoilers.

**Warnings:** Character death.

**XXX**

**Skip**

**XXX**

The gramophone is skipping, warping the tinny melody into a distorted parody of itself— like the mirrors at the circus, or one's reflection in a spoon, or her visage in his eyes.

The gramophone is skipping, but they are not. Their half-tangled feet are stationary now, bitty little bootlings almost-touching as Ciel's ebony fingers caress the curve of her cheek. Tenderly. Fondly. As he had inadvertently been taught.

The gramophone is skipping, but not as fast as Lizzie's heart. _Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump_ goes the organ, and the boy (who is not a boy, not any longer) can hear it, and he wonders if it is as red as her blush, or as pink as her dress, or as black as his soul.

_Tha-thump. _

The girl's lashes flutter, jumping up and down like the needle that skims the track's bumps and grooves. Up and down, like his hand on her face. Up and down, like his hooded, wandering gaze— considering and dark and forever cobalt-blue. Blue, blue, blue. Because irises can't change color, that just isn't natural.

The music sounds unnatural.

But Lizzie can no longer hear it, not over the ringing in her ears. Not over the sound of her startled gasp, shallow and heated as her fiancée leans close, moonstone forelocks tickling her temple as he whispers, pleads, moans, "may I…?"

And she, foolish thing, gives him permission without ever asking what it is that he wants. For what does it matter? There is nothing in the world that Elizabeth Middleford will not willingly give to her beloved, so long as it is in her power. And Ciel knows this.

And so he takes.

His lips fall upon hers with a deceptive gentleness, as cloyingly innocent as a music box melody. The barest flick of flesh on flesh, and small sparks of electricity tumble down the tightly-wound gears of her spine, transforming the innocuous soprano tune into something alto-rich and sultry. And the gramophone whines, and Ciel presses closer, and soon his mouth has all but encompassed hers, tongue poke-prodding against her own and willing her to open wider, wider, wider.

She complies until she is no longer able, jaw straining and stretching and close to popping. _Tha-thump, crack, hiss._

Her nose is crushed against his cheekbone. The throbbing ache of flattened cartilage sears in time with the burning sensation flaring in her empty lungs, replacing the fire that his kiss had originally kindled in her stomach. What had once seemed grown-up and daunting is now simply scary; her lidded eyes snap open, throat trying to close itself against the intrusion she can feel jabbing against her uvula. And she suddenly notices that Ciel's hands are no longer lightly cupping her own—instead, one is fisted in her golden curls, and the other is grinding into the small of her back, and when she attempts to wriggle from his grasp, she finds that she cannot.

_Tha-thump-tha-thump. _

Humans are animals by nature. Ciel knows (remembers) this. So he is not surprised when the frightened Elizabeth instinctively starts to struggle against his ministrations, flimsy mortal arms lifting to pound-scratch-rake-claw at his chest, manicured nails catching on stray threads of silk and the decorative lace of his top. But the demonling doesn't mind. This body is used to—no, thrives on— no, was _born_ of pain, and so he relishes her attempts to break the unbreakable.

In fact, he wants her to try _harder. _

The gramophone screeches; Ciel swallows an identical sound. He swallows her screams, swallows her air, swallows her hopes, swallows her dreams, swallows her love, swallows until it seems that she has nothing left within— and still he swallows, swallows, swallows, suckling like a newborn at the teat. For that is what he is. And he is hungry, ravenous, has never felt so starved, really, and wants nothing more than to eat.

And Ciel Phantomhive always gets what he wants.

Pulling out her soul is like sucking a berry through a straw, the sweetness of her pampered life flavoring the delicacy like the lemonade in which the fruit was steeped. Ciel has always had a perchance for the saccharine; when he finally gulps down his prize, it is with a groan of unreserved delight, heady and soft.

The gramophone falls silent. In the crook of his right arm, Elizabeth lays motionless. Not a heartbeat to be heard; quiet, if but for the first time.

Bliss.

With a kitten-like grace, Ciel's velvet tongue darts around the curved corners of his mouth, cleaning and preening, and sucking on his pale, petite fingers, like any other spoiled noble-child following a good meal.

"Maylene, Finny," he then calls blandly, eyeing his crumpled fiancée with even less interest than before. "It appears the lady has swooned. Might I ask the two of you to bring her to the spare bedroom?"

The servants who come running in may not be smart, but neither are they stupid. They do not ask why the unconscious mistress is no longer breathing… Nor do they dwell on the fact that, when the young master smiles, they can no longer breathe, either.

The gramophone crackles. Warbling music again fills the checkered hall, skipping up the treble scale as Ciel skips up the foyer stairs. A, B, C-sharp, E; one, two, three, four.

Oh, that's right.

"Tell Sebastian that he need only prepare four gifts," Ciel adds flippantly, speaking over his shoulder as he waves a regal hand. "He can skip the fifth."

**XXX**


	25. Snack xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** Demon Ciel was mine first, season II! XD

**Author's Note:** Because if Ciel can't pay Sebastian back with his soul…

**Warnings:** SebaCiel. Spoilers for the end of season II. And… um… squickness, maybe?

**XXX**

**Snack**

**XXX**

"I ordered you to eat me."

Newborns are insatiable. Devils perpetually hungry. And the wanton creature before him is both at once, a vermillion-eyed and pampered baby boy, hungry to suckle on the shadows that birthed him.

"You can't whine that you missed your supper. I rang the dinner bell so many times…"

Darkness tastes like apples, crimson-red and sugar-sweet—tempting pieces of fruit that glisten like their gazes, locked in the gloom. Newly glossed nails of lacquered ebony toy with black-pearl buttons, popping them like eyeballs.

"Sebastian."

That is not his name. And yet, it _is_ his name— the only one he'll ever hear, his true-self lost forever in the tangled loops and coils and bonds of their never-ending contract. He shall be Sebastian Michaelis, a demon's butler, for all of eternity.

"My soul is no longer on the menu…"

The truth is a taunt, as horribly heartless as the brush of the little one's candied lips, juicy with promise and wicked in intent. A purr, a snarl; a velveteen tongue rubs, kitten-like, against his own. And in that instant, familiar flavors explode atop the organ's thousand-million minute buds: the fledgling tastes of chrysanthemum, ash, and fetid toffees, just like he does. It is delicious and disgusting and Sebastian has no choice but to submit to the kiss—or lean into it, as it were: drinking in his master's presence as if it were the finest of wines. For it is, indeed, his Elixir of Life.

"Even still, you're starving, aren't you?"

_Poor, pathetic thing._ Always implied in giggles, but never-once uttered. The half-dressed demonling topples, prostrate, atop the squealing mattress; lithesome legs spread wide, as welcoming as a vice, and fragile-looking hips roll and buck and grind as needy fingers pull-yank-tug. _Tighter, Sebastian. Rougher, Sebastian. Make it_ hurt, _Sebastian. Carve the pain of my life into my soul._ Pretty little masochist, no longer breakable and wishing he was.

"Well, then…"

_Poor, pathetic thing. _

"Let's see if we can't find something else for you to snack on."

Urine and pus, spittle and bile, blood and semen. Bodily fluids are tainted by the corporeal flesh, but still taste faintly of the ethereal soul. Supping on such solutions is a veritable insult; he is reminded again and again that these are the only meager tastes that he will evermore enjoy of his once-promised dinner, and he is all the hungrier for it. But Ciel, the eager babe, is far too young and ravenous to understand the refinement of Sebastian's methods, and instead yearns for any sampling that he can scrounge. He kisses, he licks, he sucks, he bites, and he drinks it all in—the sex, the depravity, the general deviousness that is his new birthright— until Sebastian is more of a bottle than a body.

"_Ah_… harder, _Sebastian!_"

The creature beneath him wants torture, and yes, this is torture— mocking the famished by flaunting a feast. And the boy—no, devil— realizes all of this… the extent of his cruelty, the implications of his demands. Sebastian can tell by the malevolent gleam in his hooded eyes, hazy with lust but still just as brilliantly familiar as if he were looking into a mirror. For Ciel had always been a quick study, even when human… and he'd become a devil long-before his irises turned bloody.

"_Nn… oh._ I bet… _hah_… you're not as full as— _ah!_... as me… _heh_."

They gaze upon each other with eyes made rapacious by identical, opposite desires. Monochrome locks twine and knot, like spider's threads and silk.

"_Sebas… tian…_"

The title echoes, sing-song and scandalous, even as the latter syllable gets tangled in a moan. Groan. Licentious and breathy, the little (attention) whore. And the older monster is duty-bound to answer to the name, for it is now eternally his.

"Yes… _nn_… my lord…?"

Pallid skin as waxy white as a bloodroot shimmers in the moonglow, dappled in dewdrops of tears and sweat and crystalline ropes of saliva. Taloned fingers grind into skinny, outstretched arms— much like the mismatched pelvises that grind-grind-thrust into one another, drawing fluids of all kinds. The mattress is a masterpiece of color.

"I gave you… _ah_… an order…"

The little one's husky voice catches on an avian cackle, toothy smile splitting his porcelain face from ear to bitty ear. And in his angled visage, the butler can see himself—just as he can taste himself, and smell himself, and feel himself worming deeper and deeper inside: a maggot worthy of this reanimated husk of a corpse.

"_Eat me._"

And as he hisses his most-fervent wish, Ciel leans into pitiless kiss that Sebastian could not resist, even if he wanted to.

**XXX**


	26. Dessert xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **If you don't know the answer by now…

**Author's Note: **The first of about a bajillion (give or take) new fanfic ideas that I've had. Why don't I have more free time? WHY?

**Warnings: **Follows the end of season II. SebaCiel. OC death (though I hardly think that deserves a warning). ADD editing, so I'm sorry if it sucks. Inspired by conversations with Amanuensis.

**XXX**

**Dessert**

**XXX**

"I'm bored."

Elongated talons tip-toe up, up, up, leaving pin pricks of cherry-red upon a plump porcelain cheek. A delicate palm cups an angled chin, fluttering lashes tickling the velveteen edge of a pinkie finger. The face that is-not-his begins to ooze crimson liquid, like a jam-filled pastry.

The fledgling wets his glossy lips; the looming shade beside him sighs.

"You have only just started."

A grunt, a grumble. The ebony claws sink a half-centimeter deeper into foreign flesh, drawing colors that match his flashing, cat-slit eyes.

"I don't like this."

It is a sentiment echoed by the boy bound in his bed, tight coils of rope cutting into his wrists, ankles, stomach, mouth. He attempts to snap a command, to set himself free, but succeeds only in choking on synthetic fibers and spit. He can taste the beginnings of a sob in the back of his throat…

The silhouette is speaking again, in the casual drone of an exasperated parent.

"You agreed to this responsibility. I _did _warn you…"

The chastised demon's response is a pretty pout, cobalt gaze boring into the tear-filled irises that lie directly beneath him.

"Hmph. Can't I just eat him and be done with it? I'm so _hungry_…"

His breath smells like bonbons, toffees, and caramel; his lips feel like satin, luxurious and soft. His tongue trails a leisurely path down the side of his contractor's salt-stained face— an eager child stealing a lick of cream from his birthday cake.

"You really shouldn't, young master— your contract is not yet complete. It would speak poorly of my tutelage if you were to so violate demonic aesthetics."

The demonling pulls back, if but for a moment, in order to cast the gloom behind him a wry glare.

"They're really just _your _aesthetics."

The blackness murmurs begrudging assent, twin stars twinkling vermillion in the void. Even still, there is the faintest glimmer of amusement in their luminescent sheen—as if this was a joke, or a game, or a script that they'd rehearsed many, many times.

"All the same. What if someone were to find out?"

Five spider-thin fingers flex, creep, and linger, searing the back of a prone, fragile neck. There is more strength in that ginger touch than there is in all the ropes in all the world, and the boy knows that it is futile to try and struggle. But he is human, and so he does so anyway.

"_I _certainly won't say anything. Will you?"

The laughter is palpable now— coating the fledgling's lilted words like the finest, darkest chocolate, making them seductively-saccharine and bitterly-cloying. And his elder swallows the syrupy sweet-talk with notable pleasure, dry humor twisting his lips in the silvery rain of moonlight.

"You know that I cannot disobey an order."

As if this was a joke, or a game, or a script that they'd reheard many, many times…

"In that case… I order you to close your eyes for a moment, Sebastian."

The child on the feather mattress thrashes, writhing as much as his bonds will allow; adrenaline pumps through his veins like acid, burning in his heart and mind and belly and limbs. His own eyes bulge, as if in some strange attempt to keep the other's equally wide… But the world turns black all the same, vision swallowed by shadows and sparks and playful baby giggles. And he can hear the creak of a jaw hinge, the whisper of hellfire, the silent slip of saliva-slickened incisors…

"Yes, my Lord."

The fledgling is learning, his butler must admit; such affairs used to be much noisier. There is still the throat-ripping scream of the damned, the squelch and splatter of insides meeting outsides… but the little once has since-realized how to keep his exuberance contained, how to muffle the sounds of his chewing-gulping-cackling-delight. Such restraint denotes his gradual progression into maturity, like a toddler who is finally becoming accustomed to the knife and fork.

Sebastian is quietly proud.

And soon, that quiet becomes utter silence, and the silence becomes deafening.

"…may I open my eyes now, young master?"

The scent of sugar, a breathy purr. His answer is a wet brush of copper-scented sauce against his cheek; the taste of juicy lips against his own, candied and smiling. Leather-bound knees meet the mussed edges of the bed, and legs tangle as the pair falls backwards into the welcoming embrace of evisceration and gore.

"_No_."

**XXX**


	27. closer xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **I own even less than usual. Which is, in fact, saying something.

**Author's Note: **Tomorrow I have an oral, the day after I have a written exam, and the day after _that _I have _another_ written exam. And what am I doing right now? Writing fanfiction of fanfiction. Oh yeah. Priorities. I haz them.

**Warning: **Fanfiction of White Silver and Mercury's **"rooks and romanticide." **So, you know, you might want to read that first. Takes place during Act II, scene ii. In no way does justice to the original fic, and is probably not at all what the author had in mind, eh heh. (Sorry. orz Though, in my defense, this is just one of many different scenarios dancing around in my head…) SebaCiel.

**XXX**

**closer**

**XXX**

The air inside St. Vincent's was heady and thick, the brisk sweetness of November midnights vanishing with the closing creak of a gilded oak door. In that instant, coolness was replaced by a cloying claustrophobia, the thrill of paranoia scented with the pungent perfume of half-melted candle wax and still-smoldering incense. Frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood. From canisters and cases inscribed with holy texts, fragranced smoke swirled skyward, reaching towards Heaven, clouding over the moonlight that illuminated the glowing stained glass, the grimacing crucifix, the lily-white skin of the boy who stood close, close, _close._

So close, in fact, that Sebastian did not notice the aroma of the church. Was no longer aware of the heavy atmosphere, oppressive as its priest's archaic lectures; forgot the way each breath tasted of yellowed paper and bitter wafers and rotting sin. True, the flavor was strong, but Ciel's was stronger still— peppermint sugar and lavender soap, lingering like morning mist on the tip of his tongue. For while the kiss was nothing more than a feather-brush of trembling lips against the furthest corners of his mouth, and while the self-made breezes that shifted through hoary locks should have retained their hallowed odor, the young earl had a way of wrapping the entirety of the universe around his little finger— twisting reality until there was nothing left but _him_. The memory of his warmth, his touch, his essence, bouquet.

And still, he stood so _close_.

"…my lord is full of surprises," Sebastian said in lieu of a more conventional salutation, long lashes fluttering in an amused sort of surprise. The half-mast stare, full of embers and warmth and emotions that Ciel would rather-not-name, made the boy stiffen in embarrassment, gaze slicing to the pews that awaited them just-beyond the shadows.

"What is there to be surprised about?" the younger one then grumbled, arms shifting in prelude to further movement— one booted foot half-lifting for a backwards shift. "It was just a friendly greeting. Don't read anything into i—"

Mouth, arms, legs, thoughts came to a still when five long fingers wrapped around a frail shoulder, holding Ciel in place. Mismatched eyes widened, a shiver of something not wholly unlike _fear_ shooting from the base of his throat to the tip of his tailbone. In retaliation (or was it out of instinct?) the boy whipped his hand around, violent intentions clear enough to be easily avoided; a second set of leather-gloved digits coiled gently around his wrist, serenaded by a low chuckle.

"And will you not allow me to return the same courtesy?" Sebastian murmured, releasing both shoulder and arm when the disgruntled Ciel gave an insistent pull-yank-tug, wrenching himself free. Through the consecrated gloom, his cheeks shone the same rose-red as the smoldering tapers left burning before an effigy of Mary.

"You forget your place," the earl hissed, rubbing at his wrist as if it had been bruised… but his feet, perhaps surprisingly, had ceased in their fidgeting; he made no other attempts to relocate himself. Instead, he remained close, close, close, as if waiting for something to happen.

The gunslinger smiled, a flash of ivory teeth. "I assure you, I have not," he avowed, head and torso tipping as if in a reverential bow. And yes, it was, but also— but also… "Currently, I am in a near-empty church, standing obsequiously before my lord, the Earl of Phantomhive, and he is kissing me."

The vibrant blush darkened, fading from summer strawberry to ripened cherry. "_Kissed_," Ciel corrected softly. Quietly. With a flustered schoolboy's insistence, torn between pouting and screaming. "Kissed_. _Not 'kissing.' It was just a silly whim… and as you have no right to deny me my whims and wishes, whatever they may happen to be, I simply followed through with it."

Sebastian's grin widened, adding a spark of affectionate mischief to his pretty auburn eyes. "Ah," he then purred, understanding coloring the velvet veneer of his voice. "In that case…" Silken forelocks tumbled forward, ebony silk tickling nose, cheeks, temple—and not just of its owner. Ciel sucked in a noiseless breath as the gunslinger before him altered his world, perfuming it with clove and cinnamon and autumn-apple-spice… And so ensnared were his senses, the church—his position— his family— his duties became nothing more than forgotten details in the back of his mind, his ears ringing with silence and blood flow and the pounding of two hearts as Sebastian whispered sweetly, as if into his very soul:

"Is it thy wish, then, to form a contract with me…?"

It was a question that Ciel did not (would not? could not?) respond to. But, at the same time, neither could he resist the allure of further temptation. Another kiss— dry, ginger, tentative, no more a greeting than his own had been… But it was good, _so good_, and when God had seen such things, hadn't He given Himself free reign?

One, two, three, four, five, six, but ah— no rest on the seventh; instead, there was tender tongue and clicking teeth and muffled gasps and tiny bubbles of lust that fizzed just-beneath quickly pinking skin, painful and pleasant and perfect. And though their yarning bodies remained pointedly apart (and what a beautiful torment it was, the too-distant aura of such comforting heat!), needy hands twined and twisted in the moonlight, as if in personification of more powerful bonds, even-now twining and twisting around mind, heart, soul…

And if either man had maintained the capacity for philosophical thought, they may have recalled the stories of Noah and Job, Abraham and Isaac, the Israelites and Moses; of the marriages and divorces and deaths that had taken place almost-exactly where they stood…

Love is an aching, ripping, terribly destructive emotion.

They lowered themselves into a waiting wooden pew, knees giving way as politeness melted into passion.

What a fitting place, really, for a covenant to be born.

**XXX**


	28. PointCounterpoint xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Nope!

**Author's Note: **I best be careful, or writing fanfiction of fanfiction will become a habit for me. XD;

Anyway, this is directly inspired/based off of LJ user **daigranon**'s very amusing (and thought-provoking, haha) fanfic, "Forty-one Points of Propriety." (http(collon slash slash)community(dot)livejournal(dot)com(slash)phantomhive(slash)556652(dot)html) Apparently she wrote it 'cause she's been feeling down, lately…? I hope this helps cheer you up, sweetheart!

**Warnings: **Written and edited in the span of, lyke, an hour. Won't make much sense if you haven't read "Forty-one Points of Propriety." Which you should go do, anyway. :D SebaCiel.

**XXX**

**Point/Counterpoint**

**XXX**

"Who do you think you are, trying to order _me_ around?"

Sebastian coolly regarded the familiar piece of paper, waving like one of Maylene's brassieres in a torrent of self-made winds. The motion was unnecessary— redundant, even, as his servant's attention was already his— but still, the teenaged earl gesticulated with the uplifted list, shaking his fist as if he held an origami tambourine. And, as if in an attempt to match his master, the butler replied with an equally-uplifted brow, casual and composed. "I fail to see what the problem is," Sebastian then retorted, though he did tip into a reverential half-bow—for appearances sake, of course. (After all, if he expected his sheep to behave as ladies and gentleman, then he, as the shepherd, must first set a good example.) "What you hold is a perfectly reasonable set of behavioral expectations."

"It's your job to direct the _servants_, yes," Ciel snapped, glowering moodily from behind his oaken desk, "but you forget your place when you try to dictate _my _behavior!" With his free hand, he jabbed a jeweled finger at the sixth of forty-one commandments; the ink was so fresh that it almost smeared across the page.

The butler remained unfazed and unfettered, calmly pouring his master a cup of midmorning tea. "I am afraid I must disagree with you, my lord," he politely corrected, words as delicate as the fingers that danced from tea pot to sugar cubes to china cup and saucer. "It is my duty as the butler of Phantomhive to insure that no one sullies your good name… including you yourself."

The little one scowled, tossing the crinkling parchment to his left, along with all of the other useless documentation headed for the garbage bin. "I'll have you know that I am the _quintessence_ of a well-mannered nobleman," Ciel sniffed, ripping his refreshment from his servant's grasp without any of the grace or refinement that such a pronouncement should have rightfully possessed. Sebastian had to use every ounce of his not-inconsiderable patience to keep from rolling his eyes.

"As you say, sir," he instead intoned, allowing the faintest hinting of sarcasm to creep into the honeyed lilt of his velvet voice. With coiled lashes artfully lowered, he began to pile strainer and sweets atop his silver trolley, preparing to return to the kitchen and to the similar arguments that assuredly awaited him there. "I was out of line. After all, it is that childish— I beg your pardon— _childlike _spirit of the young master's that makes him so very skilled at his jo—_ah_!"

The butler broke off with a startled gasp— hands clenching, back stiffening, and head snapping sidelong, twirling towards his sneering master. Despite (or, perhaps, because of) the demon's wordless gawk, ten petite fingers remained pointedly half-raised; the men's ears still rung with the lingering _slap _of leather on thinly-veiled flesh, sharp and sudden and smarting. Beneath his ironed slacks, Sebastian could feel the unexpected bite of pain fade into a tingling tickle that surely stained his right buttock a stinging shade of strawberry-pink.

"…that was not very nice, young master," Sebastian eventually reprimanded, turning fully 'round to meet his tamer's smug and mismatched stare. It took a great deal of will power not to grind the fallen eye patch into the plush of the Turkish rug beneath his feet. "And you have broken my rules."

"I disagree," Ciel returned haughtily, looking far-too-pleased with himself as he lounged in his high-backed chair. (And at times like these, Sebastian found that he could sympathize quite easily with the underground scum who wished the earl dead.) "You didn't say anything about shooting my patch _itself_, just that I couldn't use it as a sling-shot. Really, aren't _you _the one who is always telling me to be careful how I phrase things? Maybe you should try following your own advice."

For a moment, the disguised devil could do nothing more than grit white teeth… But within a collection of ticking seconds, he was offering his charge a disturbingly genuine grin— the smile sliding onto his face as languidly as the monster himself slid over to the desk, shucking his gloves from his hands with the help of a jagged incisor.

"Indeed, maybe I should," Sebastian lightly agreed, and in an usual display of dramatics pulled the twin gloves taut between two fists. The textile responded with a foreboding _crack_, and the sound added glitters of claret amusement to the butler's doe brown eyes. "But you, young master, should be more careful in choosing victims to mock. As your appointed caretaker, I am not about to let such a blatant display of immaturity go unpunished… and it seems as if you have forgotten point seventeen."

A shiver, a gulp; the little boy blanched, sinking lower and lower into the safety of his wingback chair as the monster before him inched and loomed, blotting out the sun with his considerable shadow. The gloves fell by the wayside, crumpled and cheerfully disregard.

"...what do you think you're doing, Sebastian?"

The black-clad servant beamed— a sickle sweep of silken lips that split his face from ear to pretty ear. And the sight of it birthed a begrudging burgundy blush, as well as a bunch of boisterous butterflies— a furious flurry of fluttering in Ciel's belly that was nearly as frantic as the heart that hammered in the back of his throat. The two spidery digits that had slipped a teasing half-inch down the front of his trousers did nothing to help calm his nerves, either.

"What does it look like I am doing, young master?" Sebastian answered in a murmur, hooded irises flashing a devious shade of ochre. "I am going to punish you with your knicker straps, of course."

"But… you don't have any… kicker straps," Ciel pointed out—somewhat dumbly, admittedly, for the too-warm digits had begun to slither further south, past buttons and bones, and were now undulating in a serpentine manner distractingly close to—!

"_Seba~ oh!_"

"You may be right," the butler thus purred, chuckling softly as opalescent pearls popped from compliant buttonholes, submitting to his touch almost as easily as the earl himself. "But I know that if I search hard enough, I shall soon locate one or two."

**X**

**X**

**X**

The passing of an hour found Sebastian outside of the servants' quarters, a quill in his left hand as he flourished a final punctuation mark. His lips pursed silently around recently added provisos, gaze bouncing back and fore… But the once-over was brief, and the butler had soon internally declared the revision "good."

He left his amended list of forty-one points hanging proudly upon the wooden door, a coiling smirk upon his face and the taste of sin upon his lips.

_**Forty-one Points of Propriety**_

**29.** If you hear strange noises coming from Soma's room, do not go in. Maylene. And Bardroy.

_Sub clause A:_ This also applies to any of the young master's room.

**XXX**


	29. Moment xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** Never owned it before…

**Author's Note:** Inspired by a panel in Pink Kitten's "Under the Rose." I'll leave it to you to decide which panel.

**Warnings:** ADD editing. Squick-ness like woah. Mentions of rape. SebaCiel.

**XXX**

**Moment**

**XXX**

For a moment, he wonders if it was worth it.

_It is thy wish to form a Contract, is it not…? _

He thrashes, he groans; the lionizing darkness releases a sickly-sweet snicker, velvet breath and serpentine tongue tickling the nape of his goosepimpled neck. The child can feel his knobby knees grind and chafe against the graveled marble, the sensation too-familiar and wholly nauseating— much like the strain of spread thighs and the ache of an inverted-arch back. The disconcerting tingle of beneath-the-skin shivers, sparking and sizzling like frayed nerve endings. The bitter sting of jagged nails rake-scrabble-clawing at the stone beneath the altar coverlet, the crimson fabric sullied by bile and piss.

_"Wh— what do you think you're doi—?"_

The sacrificial lamb is used to being tupped. Roughly. Viciously. 'Til his insides (and outsides) are torn, wet, and weeping. He is used to feeling starved and stuffed; pain and pleasure. He is used to suffering through life's cruelties as a soulless husk… So if that truth is just a little _truer_ now, it does not bother him.

_"N— no…!"_

He is used to it.

_"N…"_

But that does not mean Ciel _likes_ it.

_"…oh…"_

So when his devil first approaches— first slips his taloned fingers down his tiny tamer's torn chest, whispering, wheedling, and weaving honeyed enticements— the little one tries to flee. Tries to worm off of the blasphemed altar; tries to escape the thighs that trap him, the hands that hold him, the pelvis that grinds ever-so pointedly against the crease of his rear…

_Mmm… For being such a small master, you are_ quite _a good fit..._

But that was foolish, really.

_"Ohr…"_

For a moment, he wonders if it was worth it. Wonders if he has truly managed to take hold of the spider's thread, or if he has instead tangled himself in the loops and snares of a black widow's web. Wonders if he has sold his soul for nothing more than the promise of continued servitude; wonders if he has simply chosen cantarella over cyanide. And when the sticky hands that coil around his brittle hips leave prints that seem to confirm his darkest fears, the boy's heart stalls, hardens, sinks; the pungent aroma of copper and spice hits his bitty nose and puckered hole in tandem, and he almost vomits atop the marble. Another familiarity, this scarlet lubrication…

_"Or…der…"_

But when Ciel chances a glance over his shoulder— one eye cloudy blue, the other foggy lilac— he finds that the devil's porcelain palms are coated not in his own spilt blood (which even now drips and dribbles and dyes the cloth beneath him) but the liquid remains of so many recently-eviscerated occultists, flecks of fat and brain still drying on his fingertips.

_"Mo…re…"_

The boy's voice hitches on a gasp.

_"More… !"_

Sebastian, in turn, offers a Cheshire smile.

_Yes, my Lord…_

And for a moment— the final half-second before the demon's first, gory plunge— Ciel wonders if it was worth it. As an unseen organ squelches, forcing its way into his battered body— as embers and hellfire make ash of the constricted gears in his jack-in-the-box spine— as he screeches towards the Heavens that he has willingly forsaken— he turns things over in his mind.

_"Mo—ah!"_

And then he comes (to his decision).

_"Yes—!" _

**XXX**


	30. Cake xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **The result of trying to think up a birthday story for my dear Sarah. I still owe you a CielxAlois something-or-other, especially since this is more of a writing exercise than an actual fic. XD;

**Warnings: **Season II-related stuff. (Funny how much _that _warning entails, when you think about it.) SebaCiel.

**XXX**

**Cake**

**XXX**

"_When is your birthday?"_

He has never received a gift before.

"_The sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year." _

He isn't entirely sure what to do with it, really.

"_You realize that I find your attempts at humor both trying and dull."_

Bitter winds seep into their Nest, whistling through cracks and crannies and toying with the froth of a decorative velvet ribbon.

"_Then I apologize, young master."_

The scarlet trimming contrasts nicely with the emerald green of the present, heavy and hard and glimmering crystal.

"_I don't want an apology. I want an answer."_

For a long moment, neither speaks.

"_Demons do not have birthdays like humans do, my lord. We have Been since the Beginning, and shall Be until the End. That said, however, I believe you know when the current 'me' was born..."_

For a longer moment, neither moves.

_"…"_

One is too surprised; the other, too weary.

"_You still have a month to find me a gift, if that is the cause of your current concern." _

A rustling of cloth, of scattering feathers, of dispersing dust.

"_Hmph. I already know what _you _want. You'll be disappointed again this year, it seems." _

With a lethargic lilt, the fledgling lifts the blade from his butler's gloved hands.

"_Ah. But there is more to a celebration than a cake."_

A token gesture of resistance.

"…_Sebastian."_

The candles flicker.

"_My lord?"_

So do sapphire eyes.

"_When the time comes to… blow out the candles… will you make a wish?" _

Cherry syrup dribbles down a buttercream chin, soft and white and sweet.

"_Will _you_, young master?"_

The antique knife slips further inside, cutting through crust and dough— piercing jelly innards that ooze a speckled berry glaze.

"_Why would I? My wish will have already been granted."_

Two sets of bony knees hit the wooden floor, the moldering slats decorated with cloudy pools of sugar saliva and misshapen chunks of candied entrails.

"_Indeed."_

A smile.

"_Well, then?"_

Behind the glitter of clamped, rosy teeth, a soul waits, shimmering.

"_Will you?" _

The demon's mouth falls upon his master's.

"…_I will." _

But eating is an afterthought.

**XXX**


	31. Merry Gentlemen xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **I didn't have time to do anything for Ciel's birthday, so I at least wanted to do something for Christmas.

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. Does this count as a songfic? XD;

**XXX**

**Merry Gentlemen**

**XXX**

"_God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…"_

They were back again. The carolers, that was—their raised voices weaving together to form a single, powerful entity, echoing down the alleyways like the tolling of Big Ben. Sopranos and altos, tenors and basses, adults and children; varied yet harmonized, a verbal tapestry of multicolored threads. Impassioned and sweet, their lilted words drifted upward, downward, all across the treble scale; through the icy curtain of pre-dawn smog, cotton-soft puffs of ivory down did the same, clinging wetly to the feathery frost that had stained the glass of the bedroom window.

"…_remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas day…_"

He hadn't had a window, then. He didn't know if snow had fallen that Christmas— if it had gathered on the cobblestone, if it had shimmered atop the lampposts, if it had somehow managed to blanket all of the grime and filth of this abysmal hellhole known as Earth in a delicate shroud of virginal white. Like the gauzy train of a blushing bride… rather, of a painted, lying whore.

"_To save us all from Satan's power when we had gone astray…_"

The sleep-tousled gentleman snorted, the sound of his scoff bouncing off of the still-shadowed walls—resonating like the inane choral melody that even-now clawed at his ears, his heart, and the gray-dyed corners of the townhouse bedroom. And his fingers, in turn, clawed at the eiderdown and the starched linen sheets… but that was for a different reason entirely, oh yes— _oh…_

"_Oh, tidings of comfort and joy—"_

"Such tidings? In London?" an amused Sebastian husked, velveteen voice as low and soft as the fingers that drifted across the small boy's stomach, dancing along his raised ribs as if they were some kind of instrument. And indeed, the gesture birthed sounds as beautiful as such; much more so than the simpering of the choir— whispered moans and airy sighs, staccato and whimpered. Like the previous evening's symphony, this early-morning reprisal had begun in pianissimo, but soon the music of their duet (like other things) had swelled and surged; his master trilled in carnal pleasure, arch-rub-sliding against the mattress, the bed frame, his equally-sleep-tousled butler. "Shall I… put an end to their lies, my lord?"

"—_Comfort and joy—"_

The night prior, on the year's most-hollowed eve, Ciel had charged his willing servant to chase away the strangers who had gathered on his doorstep, long before they had a chance to tell him what their true love had given them for the holidays. (If it wasn't a product of the Funtom company, he couldn't think of a reason why he should care.) And all things considered, this blasted tune was far more grating than any ditty about birds in fruit-bearing trees; it was painful enough to revisit one birthday in that God-forsaken cage, much less two— particularly on the day when God was meant to…

_Ah…_

"I believe you have… _nn_… more important duties to attend to…" the young earl breathed, twining possessive arms around an elegant, sweat-slickened neck. A grind, a thrust, a hiss; Ciel bore the pale of his own slender throat, regal drawl punctured by a pleasure-riddled groan.

Yes. Leave the senseless sheep to their stupid, silly kowtowing.

"_Oh, tidings of comfort and joy._"

He'd found his comfort (and joy) with a different shepherd.

**XXX**


	32. Butler of the Phantomhives xxx General

**Disclaimer: **I own neither "Phantom of the Opera" or Kuro.

**Author's Note: **This is entirely my host sister's fault. XD; Whenever I sing "Phantom of the Opera" during karaoke, she changes "phantom" into "Phantomhive." And I just couldn't take it anymore, so I wrote out a full parody. XD;;;

**Warnings: **Crack. Written in half an hour or so. ^^;

**XXX**

**Butler of the Phantomhives**

_To the Tune of "Phantom of the Opera" (Movie Version)_

**XXX**

**Ciel:** In London's underground  
He found me there  
A lost, forsaken child—  
Broken and bare

And I decided when he set me free:  
The butler of the Phantomhives will be  
This entity

**Sebastian:** You gave a name to me  
The day we met  
Swore to exact revenge  
And not regret

And when you finally reach that distant goal  
The butler of the Phantomhives will then  
Consume your soul

**Ciel:** Those who had called you forth  
I ordered dead  
Within your Contract laced

**Sebastian:** A spider's thread

**Both:** You've/I've promised loyalty and you/I don't lie  
The butler of the Phantomhive's you'll/I'll be  
Until I/you die

(He's there, a devil and a butler)

**Ciel:** He's mine, this devil of a butler…

**Sebastian:** Give me an order, my lord~

_(Etc.) _


	33. Inevitable xxx Bicentennial

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, like always.

**Author's Note: **I misread some of the fanfic that I was editing for Sky Michaels, and my misunderstanding resulted in this. Funny how often that tends to happen… *pointed look at "Opus"*

**PS. **Hey, ff(dot)net readers! Check out my author bio page for**_ links to LJ-only stories _**I've written. You know. If you're interested. C:

**Warnings: **Takes place (long) after the ending of season II. The usual fail editing. There's other stuff I should probably say, but that would spoil my fun, and no one reads these things, anyway. XD

**XXX**

**Inevitable**

**XXX**

It was inevitable, really, that they should meet again. Of the hundreds of thousands of millions of humans—or human-shaped monsters—that skittered and scattered, crawling atop the surface of this decaying earth, only a handful were cursed with the promise of immortality. With an eternity to squander and only a very small world in which to spend it, statistically, he should have realized that they would wander into one another, sooner or later. And although he isn't sure if this counts as "sooner" or "later" (it is rather difficult to judge, when time no longer has meaning), he does know that it is a Tuesday afternoon, gray and bitter—December, dead, and dreary. The bare branches of the potted trees that line the road are trying to scrape the clouds from the sky; he considers scraping at his eyes, hardly daring to believe what he sees.

But there the boy (or boy-thing) stands, looking just as he did That Day so many centuries ago… only thinner, perhaps. Gaunter. Corpse-white and paper-thin and all the more beautiful for it, his cobalt-blue eyes churning and shifting and shining like the ocean that laps against the not-so-distant coast. Though the wind is vicious and vigorous today, the child-creature's bare hands hang outside of his coat pockets—brittle little icicles of skin tipped with black, glossy and rotten. His silver-spun hair looks like silk in the shadows, and his poise and posture are posh and perfect; he doesn't so much as _sway _as the torrent of busy business men, of working women, of speeding students, of chattering children bump-brush-bang into him, as if oblivious to the _presence _that he exudes.

Well, perhaps they are. But he isn't.

They have been gazing at each other for a full five minutes, now. Unblinking. Unmoving. The child-creature seems unsurprised, all things considered… had certainly reacted more subtly than he had. For the briefest of moments upon first noticing each other, the boy-thing's eyes had widened the scantest half-millimeter, flashing vermillion in the afterglow of a passing car. In the next instant, the predictability of the situation seemed to have registered in his brain, and he has since been regarding his gawking companion with an imperturbable, impassive sort of stare.

But then…

"…would you care for some tea?" the boy-thing asks coolly. Casually. As if they were nothing more than two friends, serendipitously bumping into one another after a boring week apart. And perhaps they are, really. Who's to know, when time no longer has meaning?

**X**

The child-creature (he isn't quite sure what to call him, yet) knows of a place, a fancy place, with lush carpets and velvet draping and crystal chandeliers. Light is cast by bulbs and candles in equal measure, and the warm air is scented with white rose and gardenia, just like the gardens of the past. Though it is clearly a restaurant for society's _crème de la crème_, the boy-thing he follows garners a table with a simple snap of his frosted fingers. And if his irises glimmer scarlet in the process, well, he tries to only half-notice.

The maître de leads them to a square, cherry wood table dripping in doilies and lace and ivory linens, where tiny cups of bone china are already waiting. One Wedgewood beauty almost looks as if it's breathing: thin, vine-like plumes of ethereal mercury swirl steadily skyward, melting the chill from the tip of his nose and the apple of his cheeks. The second delicate dish is empty, and it is this seat that the boy-thing chooses. He crosses skinny ankles, positions himself regally atop the plush velveteen cushion, and tastes the air with the tip of his tongue.

As he exhales, a small smile graces his petal pink lips. "It is a lovely scent, don't you agree?"

He would agree, could he find his voice. He isn't sure where he had lost it, but he wishes for its return post-haste. In the meantime, he forces his stiffened neck to nod (spine creaking unwillingly) and—when gestured to do so— lifts his drink to his maw with the lightest, gentlest, most careful of his touches. His stomach is full of butterflies that even the cloying flavor of jasmine cannot drown; his hands tremble around his cup for more reasons than he can count.

"You look wonderful," the child-creature says mildly, but he is not entirely sure if that is meant to be a compliment. There is something like _pity_ in the boy-thing's mismatched eyes, something like _understanding_; he takes an elegant sip of nothingness. "Who would have thought that a human could look so healthy at the age of two hundred and seventeen?"

In response, he shifts atop his pillowed seat: fidgets, visibly antsy, as if he can't quite get _comfortable, _despite all of the luxury around him. But finally, when he opens his mouth, the faintest wisp of a whisper comes tumbling out— tired, worn, and weary. "That's just it," he murmurs, staring sightlessly into his teacup. The pallid liquid ripples in his grasp, pulsing in time to his shivering heartbeats. "I'm starting to think that… that perhaps I'm _not _human, anymore."

"…hm." The child-creature hums, vague and noncommittal, as he regards his downcast companion. "Well," he then returns, dipping a petite spoon into perfumed oxygen and giving it a crisp stir. "It is a fact we all must face, sooner or later."

**X**

"Would you tell me what happened next?"

They are on the street again, footsteps echoing through the alleys as they trample atop elongated silhouettes: people, animals, buildings. Their casters are no more real to them than the shades themselves; they are solid, unaffected, even as time stretches and compresses and contorts the gloomy figures that lie beneath their feet. It is a dark fate. But if it was dark before, it is darker now; streetlamps sputter on, leaving patches of luminescent gold upon the shush-strewn sidewalks.

"What is there to say? We lived and died as best we could. Only they did the latter better than me."

A quiet laugh, like muffled music in the mind. "You were always earnest," the boy-thing chuckles, flicking his companion a half-lidded glance of sneered affection, "but never skilled. Not at any job."

He considers being insulted. Instead, he returns the smile. And though the expression is rusty with age, dusty from disuse, when it creeps across his mouth, he feels more like himself than he has in many long, lonely years.

**X**

He isn't sure where they are going—if his companion has a destination in mind, or if he is even meant to follow. But he has nowhere else to be, and no reason to fear ill-will, so he follows at length, and when his presence doesn't seem to bother the child-creature, eventually becomes comfortable trailing along in his wake. So comfortable, in fact, that he feels a question leap from his lips before he can stop it.

"What happened to _you_?" he asks, and he is not quite sure if it is fear, or awe, or trepidation that thrums in his voice. Maybe it is a combination of two. Or maybe it is all three: a curious chord, taut yet quivering, like the strings of a singing instrument. "After you left with… what happened? Why did you go?"

In reply, the boy-thing hesitates—both in word and in deed— as he considers the other's query. But soon, the sound of decisive, efficient footfalls recommences; he stares into the metropolitan night and chews on a sigh. "I didn't wish to hurt you."

Incomprehensible silence.

"Hunger is a disease," the boy-thing expounds… though, in truth, this explanation is no more informative than the first. "Unremitting and terminal. And, in so being, is more virulent and vexing than any potion or poison that runs through your veins."

"Hunger?" He frowns, the paradigm of innocent confusion. "If you're hungry, you should have eaten something… back at the… restaurant…"

He falters, he finishes; the child-creature is laughing again, low and black and amused. Like sugary molasses, sticky, sweet, and ensnaring… He feels uncomfortably _caught _in the candy-coated sound, twitching like a moth trapped in a fluting web of snickers.

"Mine is a hunger that conventional foodstuffs will never slake," he purrs in way of clarification, and offers no more answer than that. But he doesn't need to, not really, for his eyes are flickering again: feral and feline, flecked with shards of flaming ruby.

And though he isn't sure if he believes in God anymore, (not after all this time, not after all he's seen) he is suddenly quite convinced of the existence of the Devil.

**X**

Their feet come to a stop before a snow-covered house, ranch-styled and tangled in a net of wilted ivy. No light peeks through the latticed windows, only a crucifix of aged wood; the man strung upon its beams watches the world with sad, grainy eyes, and half-looks as if he is trying to pound down the glass. As the dying idol pleads mutely with those unfortunate enough to stroll past, serrated bricks of wall and chimney seem to crumble and molder like incense and ash.

"Do you live here by yourself?" he can't help but demand, tone tinted with concern, for no matter the reality of the situation, the boy-thing beside him looks like… well, just that. But even as he asks, the child-creature is shaking his head, a look of unvoiced contempt slithering upon his porcelain face.

"I live here with my master."

"Your… what?" Another frown, deeper this time—more of a scowl than anything, indigent in its bewilderment. "But aren't you…? I mean, shouldn't _you_ be the…?"

"Oh, I am. Eventually. In the end." The boy-thing sighs flippantly, with a pretty tweak of pouted lips. "But regrettably, I have not yet reached that point with this monster."

For a moment, rather than consider the gravity of the child-creature's situation, he ponders the paradoxical choice of insult. Of "monster." For really, if there are any in the world fit to be labeled by such a word, it would be—

"Finny, a monster is something that I wouldn't want to see under my bed," the boy-thing drawls, rolling his eyes as he seemingly reads his companion's thoughts. "And while to find you in such a place would undoubtedly startle me, I think I would be more frightened of my slippers."

Finny starts. Blinks. Then grins, unable to quash the mental image that blossoms in the back of his fanciful brain. Nor can he smother the giggles that bubble and burst in the back of his aching throat… or the tears that burn and boil behind his glassy green eyes. Because _yes_, that was just what he'd so longed to hear—and of course, if anyone was to know what he needed, it would be…

"Thank you, young master," he warmly whispers, running a fleece sleeve over his winter-flushed cheeks. "And, though it isn't my place, I'd just like to tell you that I think the s—!"

But when he turns to share a glance with Ciel, he finds that his companion has vanished. He is alone on the walkway, blanketed in blackness; there is nothing in the world but himself, the wind, and a single, bead-eyed crow, watching the motionless house from the branches of an evergreen. The reticent bird spares Finny a fleeting, familiar glance before returning to its sentry, shaking a wing in a dismissive gesture.

The blonde can (ironically) no longer muster the strength to be surprised. But that doesn't keep a final grin from tugging on the corners of his mouth, nor a chortle from tripping off his tongue. Time has no meaning, but it has been too long… even if it only feels like yesterday. All the same…

"Right, right, I'll return to my work," he mumbles, sniffling around a beam as he spins away. There is no need to be sad, after all; this may be farewell for now, but in a world as small as this… well. They would meet again soon. "Goodnight, Mr. Sebastian."

**XXX**


	34. No Evil xxx LauRanMao

**Disclaimer:** Hahahahahahano.

**Author's Note:** I love this pairing. Quite a bit. So why do I never write for them?

**Warnings:** Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Give or take one of those things. Incorrect Chinese, I'm sure. (But I tried.) And dammit, my OTP managed to worm their way in here. They're so sneaky. XD;

**XXX**

**No Evil**

**XXX**

He doesn't need his eyes to see her.

Spidery fingers dance on whirled tips, balancing atop threads of lust, love, and opium. Three addictions, two people, one chair; thighs spread and backs arch as the satin drape of clothing hides their secret from the den. She sits upon his lap, just as he sits upon his throne, and they are concealed by a curtain of cotton candy clouds. Like gods. Like royalty. Like puppet masters behind their marionettes, and that is true for so many different reasons, in so many different ways—connected by lucent strings and creamy strands. All along the smog-swathed walls, other arachnids skitter and claw; the echo of raking nails and chaffing skin and heady, hazy exhalations waft through the poppy-and-nightmare scented air. And as their customers squeak and scramble, as he grinds and thrusts and hums, feelings swirl and spin within, weaving together to form a milky-sweet mess: ensnaring her heart and draining her lungs and claiming her womb.

His hands are on her hips. Or her ribs. Her breasts. The small of her back. The curve of her knee. And they are wandering the gaudy cobbled streets, or lounging in the pretty Earl's drawing room, or meeting with other black market scum in alleyways as shady as their dealings.

And still, his hands remain. On her hips. Or her ribs. Or her breasts, her back, her knee, her core, slipping up and down her body without ever seeing an inch of it, because he doesn't need his eyes.

Even without them, she knows that he sees no one but her.

**X**

He speaks too much, and in so doing, says nothing at all.

She speaks of nothing, and in so doing, says far too much.

But when they kiss, they say just enough. When they kiss, they make the perfect amount of noise. The silken slick of tongue and lip, the quiet click of teeth and chin, the sonorous thrum of knotted cords, wanton fingers plucking and tugging at the unconventional instruments that had once been pieces of clothing, and clasps burst open with a sound like breaking sanity.

Down the manor halls, there resonates a muffled shriek: bedsprings, boy, and butler, engaged in a not-so-secret rendezvous that further shrouds their own. Perhaps they had forgotten they had guests. Perhaps they had remembered but didn't care. Perhaps it was a dare, a challenge, a joke; a pawn cannot turn his back on his king, lest he wish to join him at the gallows.

He chuckles against the plump of her bosom, velveteen lips curling into a sneer that teases her nipples into pert little rosebuds. And she parts her petals for him, whimpering in noiseless ecstasy as patches of plum pink blossom upon the lily crest of her throat. So beautiful, so delicate; _I want to put you in a vase on the shelf, my dear._ I want to keep you, cherish you, as you wither into nothingness.

The earth within is broken and tilled, made softer, softer, softer— and in a rain of hungry kisses, she hears herself gasp as he moans, sighs. _Mèimèi_… Honey oozes, sticky and saccharine, as she grinds her heels into the base of his spine, keeping him in place until her insides burn and her womanhood aches and the butterfly beat of his heart has slowed atop her own.

Seeds are planted in the hope of future flowers, but childhood travesties have left her garden sterile and bare.

_In like a lion, out like a lamb._

Spring is such a wonderful time of year.

**X**

_Dì xiōng._

Her hand is sprawled possessively atop his chest, palm splayed as if to guard the special place that she has made her own. But there is no need to worry, no need to fret; at the gentle insistence of his touch, she leans her head against his shoulder and relaxes.

_Dì xiōng._

His thigh is sinewy and strong, warm and familiar: a comfortable perch for a voiceless songbird. But there is music in her silence, a melody in her serenity, and with his eyes that do-not-see he watches as her whispers coil and spin like evanescent dreams, spiraling into nothingness. He can hear her sing, just like she can feel his gaze; he turns to face her with a chipper smile, ivory pipe resting against the curve of his bottom lip.

_Dì xiōng._

Slender fingers brush against his china mask, as if to test how securely it had been affixed; wide amber eyes stare vacantly into the brunt of that cheerful beam, irises dull and impassionate for all of their taciturn ardor.

_Wo ai ni._

Already still, he seems to pause. Pressed as she is against his silk-swaddled torso, she can feel the precise moment when his heart skip-thump-thuds— the scantest hint louder, the faintest bit warmer. And no, she doesn't need to say it for him to realize, didn't even need to _think_ it… but it feels good, so _good_, to know that she can do that to him. Almost as good as knowing what he can do to her: how he can make her own heart swell and strain against its fragile cage of bone, pump-pounding when his arm coils ever more dotingly around her middle, and his mouth skims against her temple in a kiss so fleeting that even the Earl's precious manservant would miss it.

But _she_ doesn't miss it. She feels it, relishes it, treasures it. And he doesn't need to speak aloud for her to understand its meaning. She knows— just like she knows that, for once, his smile has reached his eyes.

**XXX**


	35. Combing xxx General

**Author's Note:** Happy birthday, **daigranon**! I'm sorry this isn't the fic you deserve; I totally realize there's a bigger, better story lurking in the prompt you gave me, but for the life of me, this was all I could squeeze out. XD; Maybe I'll return to this idea later…

**Warnings:** Takes place in the manga-verse, I guess, since there is a distinct lack of Paula. I imagine Lizzie as being older— 16ish, give or take.

**XXX**

**Combing**

**XXX**

"Say… Maylene?"

"Y-yes, young mistress?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

"Wh… why do you ask, Lady Elizabeth?"

"Well, I was… that is, I was… I was wondering something."

"Oh, er… I doubt that any counsel I could offer would be of much help to the lady. P-perhaps her mother, or—"

"My mother wouldn't understand— my father lives to worship her. And I can't ask my girlfriends, either, because… Well, you know how society talks. I don't need nasty rumors."

"Um… then, if I may be so bold… what makes the lady think that _I_…?"

"Because I see the way you look at Sebastian."

"…oh."

"It's just… we both try so hard, don't we? You do your best at your chores every day, even if you never manage to do them properly. And I continue to decorate Ciel's manor for him, and bring him pretty clothes, and try to make him smile, even if things never quite work out the way I plan… We're in the same boat, you see? So you're the best person to go to for advice."

"As you say… But what sort of advice are you seeking? Her ladyship just said so herself— I have not… um… had much luck where Mr. Sebastian is concerned…"

"Well, perhaps 'advice' isn't the right word. It's just… it gets to be a bit tiring, doesn't it? Constantly working so hard and rarely getting any sort of reward. So I wanted to know… well, I wanted to ask what it is that you see in Sebastian. What keeps you doing your best, attempting to please him."

"O-oh… w-well…. This is all very sudden and embarrassing, b-but… he is very _handsome_, isn't he? Not to mention skilled at his job. And… um… well, he may not be _nice_, but he's kinder to me than he is to some of the young master's gue—oh, I probably shouldn't say that… um… and… and… goodness, surely that can't be _it_, can it? Uh..."

"…so you like him because he's attractive and good at pouring tea? That doesn't really… Um, I mean, to each their own, and all of that, but…"

"I- I'm sorry, I told you that I wouldn't be of much help… Why don't you tell me why you love the young master, instead? Maybe in the telling you'll find the answer you're looking for."

"Why _don't_ I love Ciel? He's beautiful, and when he was little, he was so kind and cute… Nowadays he doesn't laugh as much, but he's still incredibly adorable! And… well, he's my cousin, so of course there's that. And… and… uh…"

"…er, the young master _is_ a pretty boy, no one can deny that!"

"Oh, but that's not the _point!_ Don't you see, Maylene? This is exactly why I'm so confused! I can hardly give you reasons why— I just… I just love Ciel. I love him because I _do_. Because I always have! Shouldn't there be more to it than that?"

"…well, why? Ah, that is… Does there really _need_ to be another reason? I'm not a smart girl, Lady Elizabeth, but it seems to me— from what I've heard— that no one truly understands anything about love. It's still a mystery, and that's why we all find it so fascinating. The only thing we know for certain is that it's unconditional… like yours is, yes?"

"I suppose…"

"Of course it is. I know that it's draining to always be trying so hard, especially when things never seem to work out and no one appreciates your efforts… but it'll all be right, in the end. You'll see. If it helps, though, I can tell you this— the young master has eyes for no girl but Lady Elizabeth."

"…really? You _really_ mean that, Maylene?"

"I wouldn't dare lie! A maid knows these things, doesn't she? Knows all about her master. I mean, granted, he doesn't see many other girls, but… oh, but Lady Elizabeth, he could if he _wanted!_ And he _doesn't!_ So see? He loves you. He's just shy. And at that age, you know. The young master really _does_ have a big heart, and I know so much of it belongs to you. You need only be patient, and I'm sure— I'm _sure_— that your feelings will reach him, and someday, he won't be afraid to return them."

"…you're wrong, you know."

"I— b-beg pardon?"

"I said you're wrong. You told me that you're not smart. I think you're brilliant."

"Oh—? O-oh, oh no… as a servant of Phantomhive, it's only natural that I should be able to comfort my master's future bride. That's all."

"Well then, Sebastian would be proud. You preformed your duty perfectly."

"D-did I…?"

"One more question, though."

"Yes…?"

"When you say that _no one_ appreciates my efforts…"

"Er—! Um, oh— oh dear, I best be off to help Mr. Bard with suppe— _ow_, when did the door clo—? Until later, Lady Elizabeth…!"

"…oh, Maylene. You're too cute, sometimes."

**XXX**


	36. Jorougumo xxx Onesided ClaudeAlois

**Author's Note:** For **makokitten**. Happy birthday~

**Warnings:** References Japanese mythology, as well as episode 8. (Though I honestly haven't watched that episode since it first came out.) One-sided ClaudexAlois, character death.

**XXX**

**Jorougumo**

**XXX**

He is a fly in a web. No— less than a fly. Lower than an insect. He is a human, such an insignificant thing; one of many and no more special than the rest. Far stupider than any captured moth or butterfly, he does not even bother to struggle against his bonds. Instead, he allows the tangled web of love to ensnare him, embrace him: hold him aloft and dictate his movements, dancing on the end of lucent threads of silk and milk. Strings that make a puppet of his body, heart, soul.

Affection is painful. Heavy. Condemning. Like a chain around one's chest, binding and breathtaking. It pierces his gut like a silver-tipped sword; it jostles his insides like a midnight-dyed carriage ride. And in the wake of that wearying burden, infected by that terminal adoration, he finds himself sick. Helpless. Weak. And every day (every _second_), he is getting weaker: life draining from his tiny body as tears fall from his eyes, and sugary confessions crystallize atop his hell-seared tongue. He offers that saccharine nectar to his quiet, looming servant; he offers all that the creature has asked for and more, more, more. Yes, the spider's meal cannot help but _give_— so willingly, so eagerly—, because he is not a butterfly. He is not a moth. He is less than a mosquito, a gnat, a fly. He is a human, a whore of a boy and a sham of an earl, and he has been enchanted by the beautiful demon and his black-widow nest of daydreams and nightmares.

Just as the spider has been enchanted by the devil crow's sweet supper.

There is no priest to save him, much less offer a final blessing; he doesn't even realize it's the end until it is far-too-late. The snap of bone rings distantly; the sound of shorn ligaments and ruptured nerve endings fizzle like gray static inside of his clogged ears. His front is a waterfall of burbling blood. His eyes are as empty as the azure night sky. And yes, the spider thinks, a fly would have died with more dignity.

Truths into lies, masters into corpses, a boy into a bug. That is the Trancy family butler.

**XXX**


	37. Hellfire xxx AloisCiel

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **In addition to being my first entry for Kurohedo, this is also a very, very late birthday fic. I'm so sorry for the wait, 12gatsunohime! I hope you enjoy it, for as fail as it is… orz

**Warnings: **AloisxCiel. No idea where to throw this in the canon, but eh. I've only written for Alois once or twice before, so I apologize for OOCness. FF(dot)net formatting fail.

**XXX**

**Hellfire**

**XXX**

There is a peculiarity to the sensation, a sense of impending disaster. Too dangerous, too perilous— like white-hot sparks crackling on the frayed ends of copper wires, threatening to rain and ignite and engulf. The invisible lightning collects on the tips of all things pointed—tongue and toes and unholy script, hidden behind a fragile lid of waxen gray. And he wonders (with whatever brain capacity he has left) if that electric current is to blame; if it is draining all of the life, all of the energy, out of him… if the passionately licking flames are turning him to ash. A luminescent murderer, that silken flare: sweet and soft. Virulent and merciless.

_My insides are on fire. Can you feel it? Pressed so close to you, can you feel the heat through my bones? It's eating me alive—I can't feel anything, anymore. I want somebody to put it out. Put it out before it_ kills _me—! _

The serpentine tongue continues to lap; a pentagram of moistened velvet caresses the cradle of his eye socket with all manner of tenderness. He traces the orb's rounded edge, where cheekbone meets temple meets forehead; he teases the fringe of coiled lashes, delighting in the tickle of one hundred unvoiced wishes. He presses the sallow brand of his seal flat to his prisoner's fuchsia-flushed flesh, and allows the full intensity of two conflicting Contracts to flash and sputter and sizzle. The air is filled with hellish hissing, and his vision with evocative embers, and his loins with churning infernos— tendrils of smoke and heat and _desire_ ensnaring his wanton innards.

_I desire…_

He knows what his companion desires. But Ciel doesn't know what _he_ desires— if he wants this to stop, to end, to continue, to intensify. Doesn't know what to think, what to do, how to stir, how to breathe. Alois is writhing atop his waist— dancing like a witch condemned to the stake— as he struggles with two sets of buttons, gleaming silver and gold; should he help? Should he fight? Should he run? Should he stay? That devilish tongue is upon him again, leaving lust and cinders and fairy dust upon his papery nape. The blaze is mounting (much like the blonde); the older boy's lips smolder and singe, eating away at his captive's skin like acid and magma and he wants to _scream_ and _thrash_ and _move_ but—

_Oh_…

Oh, that's right…

_If we burn, we burn together… Ciel. _

He is already dead.

**XXX**


	38. The Manor Intruder Song xxx General

**Disclaimer:** I own neither "Kuro II" nor the "Bed Intruder Song."

**Author's Note:** My friend Hannah first pointed this song out to me, and then my roomie Lulu said something that made me connect it to Claude… Can't remember what, but you can blame both of them for this.

**Warnings:** Swearing. Slang. Written in half an hour. Spoilers for Kuro II. Claude.

**Note:** You can either use the word "rape" or "eat." They're both appropriate, really. (And the "stupid-fucking" thing is my own little joke; I always refer to Claude as "stupid-fucking-Claude." So… yeah.)

**XXX**

**Manor Intruder Song**

_To the Tune of "Bed Intruder Song"  
__(Specifically Shane Stever's Cover)_

**XXX**

**Sebastian**: Well…  
_He's climbin' in your windows,  
Snatchin' your bocchans up  
Tryin' to eat 'em so ya better  
Hide your lords, hide your souls  
Hide your lords, hide your souls  
Hide your lords, hide your souls  
And hide your kittens  
'cause he'll pro'ly try to steal them, too_

_You don't have to come give him back—_  
_I'll take him from you_  
_And then I'll kill you, I'm gonna kill you_  
_So you had better run fast, better run fast, better run fast_  
_Spider man_  
_Stupid-fucking-spider man_

_You had a master who would shower you with love_  
_You are so dumb_  
_You are really dumb_  
_For real_

**Alois:** _My butler broke his word, abandoning me for Ciel _

**Ciel:** _I was brainwashed by some idiot in the crazy house_

**Sebastian:** _So dumb, so dumb, so dumb, so—  
He's climbin' in your windows,  
Snatchin' your bocchans up  
Tryin' to eat 'em so ya better  
Hide your lords, hide your souls  
Hide your lords, hide your souls  
Hide your lords, hide your souls  
And hide your kittens  
'cause he'll pro'ly try to steal them, too_

_You don't have to come give him back—_  
_I'll take him from you_  
_And then I'll kill you, I'm gonna kill you_  
_So you had better run fast, better run fast, better run fast_  
_Spider man_  
_Stupid-fucking-spider man_

**XXX**


	39. Chocolate xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:** Nope.

**Author's Note:** Happy Valentine's Day? XD;

**Warnings:** Written and edited in a bit of a rush. Demon Ciel. Cannibalism? SebaCiel.

**XXX**

**Chocolate**

**XXX**

Thou art to me a delicious torment.

~_Ralph Waldo Emerson_

**XXX**

The date is marked in crimson on the paper wall-calendar, circled in a smeared ring of browning burgundy. Flaking. Fading. But though the sloppy mark is no longer as vivid as it had once been, its saccharine fragrance remains strong: the scent that wafts from the wrinkled, numbered pages has been teasing the butler's senses for an unbearable two weeks; a pinkie promise of a different sort, and from the shorn film of his flesh a red thread had dribbled over chart, floor, and tongue.

A wicked, wicked tongue. It pokes between the crescent moon of his lips, covered in velvet barbs, and trails down the length of a half-hidden sternum, blanketed in frills and gauze and taut, ivory tissue. On opposite sides of that line, lissome arms wriggle like bounded snakes; on opposite sides of his frail form, Sebastian's thighs rest and entrap. The kitchen table is cold beneath his master's bitty back— the iced mahogany of the hone slabs creeps through the thin barrier of luxurious silk, biting into Ciel's body as fervently as needle-sharp incisors.

Sebastian is unstitching his way down the front of the child's chest, now— leaving pinholes of maroon that ooze thin spools of scarlet string. Like a surgeon, like a madman, like a lover… carefully, amorously unlacing his seams, loosening the fabric sheets that keep the broken doll from crumbling into ash. And the teeny toy hiccups and hisses at the gentle ministrations, writhing in half-hearted agony as his glistening sweat plasticizes. His torso is an invasion of tiny demon eyes, gazing upward through the pale plaster of his humanoid disguise: beneath the alabaster lies an abyss of hell and darkness, and his butler is going to set it free.

The first layer always hurts the most: nerve endings scream and fine hairs waver as Sebastian ever-so-sweetly severs membrane from membrane, peeling back twin bolts of near-lucent textile. There is blood waiting— lurking, bubbling— between coats of porcelain white and salmon pink, spurting from ruptured tubers that had once been a noble azure, but like magic had become the same thick-wine hue as the contorted irises peeping through his heaving breast. There are muffled scraping sounds, half-heard through the gray static of _painpainpain_, and the sensation of skin atop skin is so strange, so novel, when it is all your own.

Sebastian's mouth is on his sternum, again— only differently than before. Truer than before. His colorless lips are thin and grinning, and again their sickle curve cuts through his ragged soul as smoothly as a butcher's silver cleaver. A kiss on bruising muscles, sinewy and constrict-contract-convulsing; protective cords of ropey ligaments and yellowed fat and other fluids have leaked from homemade orifices, and the crystalline saliva that trickles atop his sallow bones sizzles like acid and nearly makes the boy howl. His Adam's apple bobs desperately, clawing at the inside of his fully-exposed throat, and the elder-demon half-considers taking a juicy bite out of that tempting fruit.

But no. There are more succulent sweets to be sampled. Treats and treasures that he is so rarely offered, the poor, half-starved slave. And already, the boy's body is fighting against his previous promise: perhaps not intentionally, but instinctually. Like the first frost of winter, thin, glittering glazes of gossamer flesh are creeping over the gory landscape of the partly-eviscerated child, clinging like pale ivy to a concave cage of ribs— urgently trying to swallow Sebastian's carefully crafted fissure. But that isn't fair, that isn't right; Ciel chokes on a yowl as— with a reedy_ pop_— his butler breaks through the translucent drum of his chest, shattering the cartilage beneath the raw veneer of new and tender flesh.

Two fingers prod experimentally inward, poking deep within the gruesome gap: warily seeking out sharpened shards. He finds two or three, and fishes out the splintered spikes of bone before they can puncture anything gelatinous or vital. Heaven (or Hell) forbid that he accidentally cause his charge any more distress than is entirely necessary. The rest of the boy's ribcage, as fragmented as it may have been, he leaves greatly alone… though he is forced to snap the middle left from its base in order to reach his ultimate prize. As the crisp _crack_ echoes through the shadowed kitchen, Ciel's insides _squirm_ in responding anguish: serpentine bowels undulate in liquid sheathes of lipids as the tiny pockets and pouches of his purpling organs quiver, stomach rolling and spleen swelling and bladder rippling in the wake of an unvoiced howl of searing excruciation.

The elder devil smiles— quietly, benevolently, affectionately— as he reaches a slender hand into the musty, muggy chasm. The expression further softens when his wordless greeting is answered by a shuddering pulse of welcome, delicate and warm as the wings of a baby butterfly. Beneath the ginger tips of his lithesome fingers, the little heart thuds and pounds and aches… and the boy to whom it is (still) attached snuffles and grunts and whimpers, chin and lashes quavering as violently as every other fiber of his being.

But still, he, too, is smiling. And he continues smiling, even after his life-force is unfeelingly _ripped_ from his center, torn from him with a belly-churning _squelch_— tissues and tubes splitting and spurting and splattering against the spackle of the ceiling. Even after his wide eyes dull to lifeless, limpid oceans, salty waves of which continue surging over the flat of his clammy temples, dripping to pool beside foamy lakes of spittle on the table. Even after his body ceases to move at all: every atom of it dying in the throes of shock and suffering, if only for the briefest of whiles.

And as he sleeps with a smile, so he _wakes_ with a smile— a smile and a frantic gasp for air— some immeasurable time later, still sprawled across the slickened countertop, still pinned beneath Sebastian's solid weight, still shorn of clothing and a membrane or two… but he doesn't care, doesn't even notice, because his butler is cherry-mouthed and beaming, nuzzling against his bloodied nape and whispering words of sated thanks and adoration.

Ciel tangles weakened fingers in his demon's feathery down, holding him close, allowing Sebastian to reciprocate hurt with _pleasurepleasurepleasure_. Nips and kisses, tongue and teeth, fingers and legs that lace like red threads and corset strings… And it isn't very long before Sebastian is eating him again— is inside of him again— and Ciel is giving him his heart again, in a way so much more _frightening_ and _painful_ than before. But that is what this holiday is all about, really, and so he doesn't mind.

For today, at least, he doesn't mind.

**XXX**

My heart to you is given:  
Oh, do give yours to me;  
We'll lock them up together,  
And throw away the key.  
~_Frederick Saunders_

**XXX**


	40. Si Deus Me Relinquit xxx General

**Author's Note:** I thought it would be fun to expand on this idea of Angelskully's and play with it a little. :D

**Dedication:** For Angelskully, as this was really her plot bunny. *worships* 3

**Warnings:** Quickly written/edited. Sorta AU-ish? Religious themes.

**XXX**

**Si Deus Me Relinquit**

**XXX**

_Si deus me relinquit,  
Ego deum relinquo_

_Solus oppressus nigram clavem habere potest,_  
_Omnias ianuas praecludo_  
_Sic omnias precationes obsigno_

**XXX**

_What dost thou desire? _

A silent question, a noiseless breath. On the tip of a half-lolled tongue, the dry air tastes of bitter sin and moldering apples, spiced with the lingering perfume of frankincense and copper. Metallic wine, thick and spilt: it traces the grooves and ruts and Gothic flourishes of silk-swaddled marble, pooling in saccharine puddles atop the sunset stains on the varnished floor.

_Answers. _

Through high-arched panes of colored glass, the sun blazes and burns like a ball of righteous hatred. Scorching. Smoldering. Blistering in the back of his throat, just as the haloing rays of hellfire turn the hallowed ground into a luminous valley of ethereal flame.

_What manner of answer dost thou seek? _

A place of Enlightenment has never seemed so dark.

_Why. How. _

The boy's alabaster face is as blank as the visage of the statue above him, his eyes as dull and empty as the downcast gaze of plaster. The effigy's pallid arms are spread wide, perhaps to imbue those who see Him with a fulsome feel of welcome… but he can see the driven nails that force the damned charade upon Him, and he knows now that the gentle embrace this marionette is made to offer will grant him nothing more than agony. He has had enough of agony— of whips against his back and knives against his front, of tears and scars and broken hearts that lie in shattered splinters in the throne of his heaving torso: a mess of sponge and baby bone, smears of drying gray brain matter decorating the serrated walls of mined caves. And so he stares, as if in protest; he stares, as if in accusation; he stares, as if in challenge, daring the wasted slip of a man to dismount His high and mighty cross.

_If but such answers existed… _

But of course, He doesn't budge, the filthy coward: He merely returns the child's vacant glare with one of His own, unmoving and useless. Stone-hearted, just as He is stone-limbed and stone-headed, suspended on fragile threads of idealism and lies. In the end, He is nothing more than a worthless spectator, a voyeur to his misery: taunting him and those like him with promises of joy and comfort that He never intends to fulfill. A Covenant of deception and deceit.

_Why would He allow this to happen? How could anyone believe that this was right? Has he no concern for what he's done to me? _

His face is wet with liquid salt, tinged pink by streaks and streams of scarlet fluid. His fist is taut around a woven band, fibers of fraying hemp chafing against the calluses caking his palm. His heart is hardening, becoming as icy and unfeeling as the corpse that lies in a cold heap at his feet, purpled entrails glossy in the fiery glow of twilight. And his eyes…

_Is such knowledge what thou_ truly _wishes to obtain? _

His eyes are flicking backwards, towards the sweep of oaken pews, towards the gilded double doors, towards the sound of raven wings and gossamer smoke, coagulating in vaporous swirls of midnight ink that burst and bloom and blossom midair, like droplets of blood in still water. A smile lingers and looms, rising as a sickly sickle moon, and the little one's terror waxes and wanes in ways much akin to the stranger's harvest-red irises.

_…no._

The simpering devil sneers, a worming leer fit for a maggot ridden corpse.

_Then I shall enquire but once more. What dost thou desire, my tiny master? _

And how fitting, really, for he is hardly more than a cadaver himself: a carcass of rotting human tissue, a soft and pliant home for the demon to devour, wriggling deep into his decaying heart, fetid mind, rancid soul. An infestation, a plague, an intestinal parasite, willingly ingested; he collapses with a cord-ripping _scream_ as he claws at his canvas-covered chest, bile rising as the flesh beneath his palms swells and sinks of its own accord— undulating like a serpent beneath the surface of the sea, sending waves rolling over and over in its fearsome wake. His body contorts and shrivels as his bloated insides decompose and his gasping lungs petrify and his heart is eaten whole: gobbled up by spiders with poison-tipped pincers and a writhing black mass of beetles and boils and blasphemous thoughts.

_I want the chance to revenge myself upon He who did this to me. _

Judgment will come to this Earth someday, at a time unknown to all but One. A game of chance for the mortals of the world… a play of patience for the devils.

_Granted. _

And so Sebastian waits.

**XXX**

_Sed  
qui me defendet?  
Ab me terribilissimo ipse_

**XXX**

Though I'm sure that everyone has already seen it, the art that inspired this story can be found here: http(colon)(slash slash)angelskully(dot)deviantart(dot)com(slash)art(slash)Kuroshitsuji(dash)Sebastian(dash)CR(dash)197941500


	41. Sparrow xxx SebaCiel, CielLizzie

**Disclaimer:**I own nothing.

**Author's Note:**I love RPing with Madeline-Elizabeth. Lyke, a lot. Probably too much. But I don't care. 83

Anyway, to be honest, I had a number of different ideas as to how to attack this story… and in the end, I chose the _least _mind-effery-iest route, which is weird for me. XD; But I too much enjoyed writing this as an analysis. And maybe I'll use my other ideas in sequels or re-writes…? We'll see.

**Warnings:**SebaCiel, CielLizzie, OC. Character death. Simplistic writing? (Does that need a warning?) Fail editing.

**Dedication:** For Maddie. 3 Thank you for letting me stake some sort of claim on your adorable OCs~ :'D

**XXX**

**Sparrow**

**XXX**

**I.**_ "Who killed Cock Robin?" "I," said the Sparrow,  
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin." _

**II. **I am alive.

I live in the corners, dusty and dark. I hide behind furnishings, frightened by sunlight. I chase after his shadow— pouncing like a kitten, pawing at his heels.

I love his silhouette. I feel safe there. Warm and surrounded, as if embraced. My formless fingers dig into his pallid ankles, brittle beneath the leather casings of elegant boots.

He cannot see me. He cannot feel me. But a shiver races up his spine, and he knows that I am there.

**III. **I linger in the mornings, crouched beside his desk as he works. (Sometimes, I will poke at his ink pots. Sometimes, I will rustle his papers. And sometimes, he will smile.) In the afternoons, I nap in the parlor, lulled by the sound of spinning silver spoons in Wedgewood cups. (I cannot eat what he eats, but he will set aside a cookie or a slice of strawberry cake for me. Call it seconds. Watch as the whipped cream melts and the fruit bits ooze.) The evenings we spend together in darkness— darkness and pleasure, secret and sin. He groans and whimpers and sighs atop the bed, against his butler, within his gilded bedroom; I delight in his delight, and I love who he loves.

(_"Who saw him die?" "I," said the Fly,  
"With my little eye, I saw him die."_)

"Is she… here…?" he'll ask, breathlessly wanton, with bruised lips parted and straining gaze darting to find a figure invisible to him. Astral and essence. Soul and shadow. But though his eyes are blind, his butler's are not; vivid vermillion cuts through the gloom, and they see me for who I am.

"She is, young master."

To the demon, I am beautiful.

"…tell her to leave us."

So, so beautiful.

"Yes, my lord."

I expand myself, crawl and slither, and meld into the blackness of the hall.

**IV.**I weigh nothing. I am nothing.

"No. You are _everything_."

The butler's silhouette is an equal comfort. I wrap around his legs as he pares and peels potatoes.

"Just a little longer, my dear. Just a little longer…"

**V.** He looks at me (_could_ he look at me) as if I were a little child, innocent and sweet.

His body is sixteen. My spirit is two and one-half. But we are older than we appear—our wicked minds as ancient as the ember-eyed devil who we call our own.

**VI.** Every Christmas, I am given a doll. They are left for me on the sill of the bay window in the old nursery, their china spines pressed flat to frosted glass and their bitty feet dangling from the ledge. Within the boundary of one whitewashed frame is a porcelain brunette with a blue baroque bonnet. In the opposite pane, there is a redhead with doe brown eyes. I cannot play with them, but I love them. I poke them. I sniff them. I stare. This year, I want a blonde. A blonde with curls. Curls and a pink dress. I _want._

The butler chuckles when I tell him, my tendrils tugging on his trousers.

"Perhaps if you are good."

**VII. **For so long, he did not know me.

Chills were blamed on undetected drafts; jostled papers much the same. A tipped ink pot was his own mistake, though it'd been placed far from the reach of his elbow. I had no voice, no face, no eyes, no mouth, but I cried all the same— twisting and spinning and writhing in my sorrow. A ribbon of remorse. A whorl of woe.

(_"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove,  
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."_)

It was as if I did not exist.

_But I am alive._

**VIII.** Every so often, my cookie is eaten. Every so often, my cake is sacrificed. Waste not, want not; he gives it to her, and she accepts.

I do not mind. She fascinates me. She is as close to the sunshine as I am able to venture: golden tresses and rosy cheeks, ruffled layers of lace and opalescent gossamer. The filaments shimmer. Her pearls gleam. She dines with him and sips her drink, dainty pinkie out and emerald eyes bright.

She loves him, too. I like that. I touch the base of her delicate shoe—stroke it almost reverentially. She does not understand the icy tickle that traces from toe to heel; her foot jerks, and she apologizes.

He tells her not to worry. Offers her a spot more tea. Asks again if she is sure, very sure, that she wishes to be his.

(_"Who'll be the parson?" "I," said the Rook,  
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."_)

"Yes. In every way."

He loves her, too.

The wedding is in one week.

**IX.** I don't like it in here. It's dark. Hot. Wet. Too wet. What are these? I can't move. I don't recognize—I can't move. I can't breathe. I don't like it. He said I would like it. I'm trapped. I can't breathe. I can'tbreathe. Icantbreatheicantbreathe_icantbreathe_—

A crack, a squelch; I burst into the brightness like a fledgling escaping its egg. Riled and terrified, I flee from my prison and seek their darkness—quivering, quavering, as I cling to the butler's leg. I leave stains upon the devil's pants, and he comforts me with a tender hush.

(_"Who caught his blood?" "I," said the Fish,  
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."_)

Then he turns to his master and says:

"I warned you that she would reject it."

**X.** He had to be told.

I was there when the butler confessed to his crime, there to hear his master shriek and shout. There to watch him smack and claw. There to witness the demon's leer: his pride and pleasure all the more pronounced behind his mask of nail-marks and contusions.

Whywhywhywhy.

"Because you could not do it without me." The devil snickered, his entendre obvious. And crude. And true. "What sort of butler would I be if I could not do this much for my master…?"

(_"Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren,  
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."_)

**XI. **The butler thinks that I am beautiful. He tells me I am unique.

He tells me that he loves me.

He tells me that he'll save me.

**XII. **I like her.

She is pretty and strong. Her gowns are soft. She smells of gardenias. As I idly circle her shins, I cannot help but wonder if she would like me, too, could she see me. If she would allow me to sit on her lap and try on her jewels; if she would sing _Who Killed Cock Robin_ with me, or play hide-and-go-seek.

I doubt it.

**XIII.** I am sick.

"She has no body."

Dying.

"I know."

Withering.

"She has no _mouth_."

Fading.

"I _know!_"

Starving.

"There is only one."

Help me…

"…I know."

**XIV.** "You are beautiful."

Lashes lowered, the butler smiles at his master's lady: at her rouged face and glossed lips. At the veil pinned in her ringlets, as fragile and fine as spun sugar. Rime. Cobwebs. She blushes at the word, and folds her willowy hands—satin and silk and long white train, like an angel without wings.

(_"Who'll make the shroud?" "I," said the Beetle,  
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."_)

"Thank you, Sebastian."

The devil opens his eyes. He is looking at me.

**XV.** He enters when she leaves. Draped in finery, regal in foppery: beads and gems and roses and velvet, and a tiny top hat better suited for one of my dolls. He is the beautiful one—not her. Not me. I wonder if he knows that. He stands before the lady's empty makeup table, hands on the seatback and eyes on his reflection. His expression is troubled, but his eyes are calm; I can see them both, see _through_ them both— see to the soul that they two window.

I am reminded of the first day. The day that he acknowledged me. And maybe he is thinking of it, too, for when he speaks, he uses the very same words.

(_"Who'll dig his grave?" "I," said the Owl,  
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave."_)

"I take responsibility for the consequences of my actions."

**XVI.** We wait in the summer home, away from holy poison and blessed grounds. And because we are alone, the butler plays with me: distracts me from fretfulness with hide-and-go-seek and poetry.

_"Who'll toll the bell?" "I," said the bull,  
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."_

Beyond the drawn curtains, the church bells toll.

**XVII.** During supper, I sit in his lap. I try not to wriggle, I try not to fidget. He knows that I am hungry, and in his guilt, he hardly touches his own food. That wasn't my intention; I'd only wanted his attention. The butler looks disapprovingly when he fills crystal flutes with champagne, but it does not faze me. I have never been very good at knowing what is and is not 'alone time.'

I spiral contentedly atop his thighs.

She is lovelier than ever in the smoldering candlelight—young and vibrant and supple, skin powder-pale and cheeks flushed pink. Her heart must have expanded in her chest, for her bosom has swelled to compensate; she lifts her glass towards her husband's and proposes a toast.

"To our happiness. To the happiness of our families. And to the happiness of the family… that we will have together."

Her voice is husky, anxious. Flustered. Shy. Enchanted. Alcohol bubbles and shimmers in cups and in veins. He is nervous, too, but still smiles when he reiterates.

"To family."

**XVIII.** The bedchamber is dark. I can move freely. Excited, I race on ahead, slipping through the gaps between stocking-sheathed ankles and flying over the floorboards. I roll atop the coverlet. I spin around the posters.

I turn, and find that he and the lady still hesitate in the threshold. Behind them, the butler looms, amused.

"It was once required that outside parties pay witness to a couple's first married night together," he informs, velveteen voice teasing the ears—just as the words tease the mind and his breath teases the senses. "Do the lord and lady believe such voyeurism will be necessary, or can I trust the young master to… get the job done?"

The butler's grin makes him glower, and for a moment the master and mistress really _do_ look a pair: their stately faces dyed the same shade of radiant ruby. He swats at his servant and bids him _goodnight_.

Then they enter the room and walk towards me.

**XIX.** The bows in her hair are unwoven with a hiss, almost like flames being snuffed. Her curls tumble around her slender shoulders, cascading in brilliant waves… She sweeps the locks away with a lissome hand, giving her husband better access to the crisscrossing cords looped down her back. He presses a dry kiss to the curve of her throat as his fingers tangle in the knots.

(_"Who'll carry the coffin?" "I," said the Kite,  
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."_)

A dress and a petticoat slip from sinuous hips, and are eagerly left upon the ground— littering and decorating, like fairy rings in the forests. Something magical. Something special. She is murmuring fancifully, vows and dreams and pretty things that I only catch parts of, because he is kissing her, kissing her so fiercely, and she is losing oxygen and strength and her train of thought.

They fall back upon the mattress, all twisted and twined as they roll like I did. And she is beautiful and pliant and trapped between his thighs, beaming at her husband as he pins her wrists to the blankets.

He returns the expression. Touches his mouth to her forehead.

And then he whispers:

"Now."

**XX.** She doesn't realize something is wrong until she feels me in her trachea, lodged like a lump of undigested food. Instinctively, she chokes and she gasps— she surely struggles against her husband's hold— but his grasp remains firm, unmoving. I do not move, either. I wait as her esophagus contracts, then I tear my way downward, into the oozing darkness: skittering and squirming against the ribbing of her muscles like an insect. Like a parasite.

I am not a parasite.

I tumble into her tummy with a quiet splash of acid. For a moment, I merely sit in that puddle: dazed, trembling, listening to the rhythm of an unseen heart. To the rumble of undulating intestines. To the rushing of blood through tubers and capillaries. It is… warm here. Pleasant. Familiar? We are the same. We feel the same. Compatible. Family. A tendril pokes upward, outward. Feeling. I feel, and am felt, and am doing the feeling. I can breathe. I can _breathe_— her lungs are mine. I want to _clutch_ them, _squeeze_—no. No, wait. I need them. Be gentle.

I pet them. They are porous and soft. Like the pillows in the parlor. She is soft all over. And warm. Soft and warm.

I like her very much.

And so I fill her, slowly, with wisps and vines of Self. I spiral downward to thread through ligaments; I coil upward to coat breakable bones. Every nerve and artery and lipid is poked, prodded, assimilated. I feel so happy—she feels so scared.

Her mind resists. Her soul fights.

But I was told that I could eat those.

_Who killed Cock Robin?_

It is nice to no longer be hungry.

_I._

**XXI.** I am a Contract. I am _their_ Contract. I am energy and promise, an amalgam of two souls, born from desire and depravity and sex.

I am the demon.

I am the human.

He could not let me die.

**XXII.** He is above me. He is speaking. I can feel him, hear him, as I never have before—from specified points of contact and closeness, radiating from something so solid, so weak. His hands are no longer bound around her (me), but I can feel where they'd been clutching; my wrists are sore, and my legs are tired. She must have thrashed more than I'd realized.

He speaks again. Words. Language. I know words and language. I did before. I still do. So does (did) she. It's in her brain. No, I ate her brain. I put my knowledge in it. Where did I put that knowledge? I rifle and rummage, and he speaks a third time. Maybe I can read his lips…? Oh, I cannot see. Why can't I see?

…my eyes are closed.

At once, my lids snap open. There is little light, for it is still night, but the candle-glow radiates with a fierceness that I did not expect. I feel my pupils dilate, and the wet film between the ball and lid replenish itself as I blink once, twice, three time. At first, his face is like one seen through hoar: blurry and undefined. But as I remember how to utilize my cornea, he comes into focus, lingering above me.

"—lus…?" He sounds… worried. He looks worried. He brushes the back of one finger against my cheek—a single, sweet stroke. "Bellus…?"

The corners of my lips pinch. Lift. Skim against the flesh of his knuckle, capturing the taste of soap and sweat. I am smiling. I am _smiling_. He can see me and he cares and I am _smiling._

His breath hitches. I can see the gasp wedge itself within his ribcage, fluttering like a pulse. "Bellus?" he repeats, fingers blossoming outward—unfurling like a flower—against the curve of my (_my_) face. "Bellus, is that you?"

Response. Answer. Words. Language. Knowledge. Yes. Yes.

"Yes," I tell him—my voice echoing in my ears, in my head, in the room. Loud, reverberating. It's almost scary, but I am too elated to be frightened. I want to make more noises. Sounds. Move my tongue and limbs. I want to touch. I want to _do_. I suck down another gulp of air (it tastes like wax and smoke and makeup and heat) and move my arm-elbow-hand-fingers—jerkily, but carefully. Cover his palm with my own. And I say again:

"Yes, father."

**XXIII.** I receive many compliments. He tells me I am beautiful. The butler—my sire—tells me he is proud. When he finds us sometime later, we three lay atop the bed, and my heart beats so fast I am afraid it might break through my chest. Ribcage shattered, blood everywhere. Another ruined body. When I speak of these fears, they laugh.

"You were brave."

"You did well."

They kiss each other and they kiss me. Different kisses. I like mine better.

Better. I am better. Better: not sick. Better: an improvement. _Better._ Old friends marvel, and family members gawk. _It's like she's a completely different person_, I hear them say, voices hushed behind gloved hands and lace fans. _Marriage has brought out the noblewoman in her. She is so graceful, demure, and poised._

She is not missed. How can she be, when no one else knows she is gone?

_"Who'll sing a psalm?" "I," said the Thrush,  
"As she sat on a bush, I'll sing a psalm."_

I always wanted to sing with her. Now we chant the nursery rhyme together—soft and sweet and synchronized— as I brush the blonde curls of my favorite doll. The brunette and the redhead watch in jealousy as I use the window as a mirror.

I am alive. She is not.

Outside, the bells continue to toll.

**XXIV.** _All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,  
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin._

**XXX**


	42. Moral xxx Bicentennial

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **Just a little Bicentennial-related piece that I finished in an hour or so. I wasn't even going to post it here, but some friends insisted. XD;

**XXX**

**Moral**

**XXX**

Once upon a time, a long time ago, this guy noticed Death givin' him the ol' hairy eyeball.

Obviously, the guy freaked out. I mean, "memento mori" and all of that—plus, Death had a horrific sense of style, back then. Not just dark and dreary, but trite to boot. _Anyone_ would have run screaming, if only to keep their eyes from bleeding. Though a splash of red might have helped improve the scene… In any case, that's what this guy did—he bolted to the village elder and asked for advice, something he could do to keep Death (who wasn't all that great at the 'subtly' thing) from finding him. The village elder scratched his beard (well, I assume he did; he was old and supposedly wise, so he undoubtedly had a beard) and told the guy about another city across the mountain path. It was almost a suicide run at that time of year, but if the guy was serious about escaping, it was probably his best bet.

This is where irony kicks in, of course.

So the guy makes the journey. And shockingly, he doesn't accidentally kill himself on the way—which is what I totally thought would happen the first time Will told me this story. No, instead, he makes it to the second town no worse for wear… only to immediately run into Death.

Needless to say, our hero was pissed. He'd just risked his life to escape Death, and there he was, as if waiting for him! Throwing a tantrum probably wasn't a wise idea, but still, he couldn't help but ask Death how the hell he'd managed to find him here.

"Well," said Death, "it's the darnest thing. When I saw you in that village the other day, I was so confused! My log said I was to pick you up in three days in _this_ city, so what were you doing in a place so far away? But I see it all worked out."

That's where the story ends, I guess, and that's where the moral kicks in. Back in school, Will told me the lesson was that we can't change fate, and it's stupid to try. But to me, it's always rang more as a warning about self-fulfilling prophesies, you know? Or any prophesy in a movie, really: it only comes to pass when someone goes out of their way to try and prevent it. Like… like in Kung Fu Panda 2. What if that peacock-kid had just left all of the pandas alone? He probably would have gotten away with being evil.

The point is, sometimes, inaction is action. Don't tell someone something is going to happen, and it won't. It's a different sort of self-fulfilling prophesy. Ignore Fate, and it won't hurt you. It will change and try to trick you, but it will keep its sorry ass away or it'll wind up with a pretty scarlet chainsaw lodged in its throat.

"How is he?"

Instinctively, I snap shut the covers of my book. _Ciel Phantomhive. Species: Devil. Cause of Death: Murder. Death Day—_ "Oh, the little brat is fine~" I trill, beaming at the worried demon loitering in the door. He's dressed in his Target uniform; crusting spots of brown are slowly starting to materialize on his shirtfront, burgundy blood oxidizing and appearing like magic. Sprawled atop freshly laundered sheets (you're welcome, brat), Ciel's bandages are staging a similar production, using the same set of tricks. But at least the pus is gone. And he's started breathing again. "I keep telling you, that sick priest doesn't have a prayer. No pun intended, heehee~"

Sebastian doesn't look convinced. Or amused. (C'mon, that was a pretty good pun, wasn't it?) Instead, he waffles in the threshold, unsure if he should go or stay—if he's more of a hindrance or a help. The poor romantic sop; he wants so badly to curl up beside his master and (literally) try to kiss his pain away, but he's got a shift tonight. He's already going to be late. Ciel is stable, but—but— but—

"Sebastian-darling, please," I scoff, pouting out my bottom lip in an expression of mock-hurt. "Do you really think I can't handle looking after a half-comatose child for a few hours? Honestly, you shouldn't be worried about _him_—you should be worried about _me. _Who'll save me from being bored to death?" I sigh dramatically and scrub my fingers through my hair, looking as annoyed as possible. But only for a moment. Then I visibly soften, tone switching from sarcastic to soothing. "You know he'd order you to fulfill your obligations. And besides, I'm the one with the mothering instincts and bedside manner. You're more for in-bed manner, and tut-tut, now isn't the time for that." With a teasing smirk, I giggle behind an uplifted hand and wiggle my eyebrows in a knowing way.

For a full minute, his glare is flat and mirthless. But then Sebastian's shoulders sag. He lowers his head to shake it; when he glances back up, he wears a small smile.

"I'll be back promptly at eight. Please promise to tell him when he wakes up."

Apparently, according to American Sign Language, that old hand gesture I used in England was a 'backwards' "I love you." Recently—after having fully assimilated myself in the US-style of life— I've taken to flipping my hand palm-out and portraying my feelings properly. "Cross my heart and hope to _die_~"

Sebastian snorts, satisfied, and turns away. I can hear his keys jangle and the door latch itself as he goes, leaving his heart behind. For a while (just in case) I continue to wear my perky smile… But after half an hour I allow it to slide away, and open my book once more.

_Sebastian Michaelis. Species: Devil. Cause of Death: Starvation. Heartbreak. _

Excellent. Just a little while ago, we'd been dealing with heartbreak and _suicide. _Even better—the clocks have jumped forward; both devils are now looking at—

"…g-good… read …?"

I glance up, startled. Ciel has cracked open one bloodied eye and is grinning at me, chest rolling with coughs and cringes. I can feel his fever from here; I set the lodger aside and instead pick up the cloth and bucket at my feet. I dip the cloth in lukewarm water, wring it out, and dab the brat's forehead with it, making a nonchalant sort of sound as I do so.

"Well, it's not _Harry Potter_, but…"

He manages a brittle laugh. Good. A sense of humor is good. He hisses a long sigh as he, again, settles fully against his pillows, closing his eyes as I work. I'd have thought he'd just gone back to sleep had he not still been wearing a tiny smirk, as if inwardly laughing at some joke. Before I have a chance to ask what the punch line is, though, he asks:

"Is my… name in… t-there…?"

I don't pause. Blink. Jolt. React in any way. I only tell him, "nope" and offer an obnoxious laugh to counteract his idiocy. After all, demons don't die, right? Right. I clean out the rag again, reapply its coolness, and am so incredibly calm and casual that the brat has no choice but to believe me.

He returns to sleep. I return to my chair, my book, my thoughts.

If I don't allow them to see Death, they won't panic and try to flee. If I don't tell them about the city beyond the mountains, they won't think to leave. Death expects a rendezvous in three days time; by staying here, they'll escape him. I'll see to it that they stay. Because if they stay, I can protect them.

That's the moral of the story.

**XXX**


	43. Heartbeat xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer:**Nope.

**Author's Note:**Wow, it's been a while… I'm almost afraid to post anything, haha. XD; I admit, this probably isn't all that great… but it was a fun way to scrape the rust off of my writing. I hope you find it at least a bit enjoyable~ :D

**Warnings:**SebaCiel. Inspired by chapter 63 of the manga, as well as by my crazy roommate. Who, I should mention, has taken to calling "Hallucination" Sebastian's "We gonn' make love 'til you wake up" song. So… yeah. XD; Lemon-flavoring and sorta non-con? (But not really, I don't think. I mean, Sebastian doesn't ignore an order to stop, so…)

**XXX**

**Heartbeat**

**XXX**

_Ba-dum_.

He wakes to the sensation of spiders. (_Like maggots and earthworms, I feast upon flesh_.) And for a single, muddled moment, his delirious mind cannot decide if he is trapped by cage or coffin, bones or bedroom. (_I nibble on nipples, I suckle a sternum_.) A sacrificial lamb, in any event; is it better to be eaten by the dregs of society, or gobbled up by the demons in Hell? (_He is a snack, a supper, and a sweet all in one. I will pick my teeth with his still-twitching fingers_.) Which would he wish for, had he the power to choose? (_The dinner bell is __imminent_; inevitable... it will serenade us with the same sonorous song as a fallen crown of gold.) But no, wait—that power _is _his, and he _did _choose, and he _needn't_ die for the latter to come to pass. (_Dead is the boy with the sunshine stare and rose-patch knees; in his place, an earl with clouded eyes and a façade of thorns wriggles and writhes and blossoms_. _Beautiful and foolish: an obstinate flower in an arid desert._) Memories and fantasies merge and mix, and it takes a minute to realize that the feathery antennae of insects are not what poke, prod, and tease the pliant flesh of his no-longer-secret place. (_Beneath the transparent porcelain of his skin, blue-blooded veins thrum with liquid existence_. _I will write the tale of our time together with that staining ink—inscribe our story into the parchment of his flayed and tanned hide._) Rather, it is the proffered thread that dangles from talons as thin as spindled legs which goad him back to reality. (_But for now, I cocoon my noble prey in esthetic silks and elegant seduction_.)

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

"No," he rasps into the embrace of the dark, into nighttime air as cloyingly, clingingly black as molasses. (_Saccharine and sticky, like any small child_.) His stomach feels sticky. (_Already coated in dollops of cream, like the cake on which he'd earlier indulged_.) And as he speaks, he can taste a lingering sweetness curdling on the back of his tongue, its flavor both familiar and foreign. (_Me, of course. For we are alone in the manor, young master, just as I'd promised...) _"_No_," he whispers again, as if chastising a naughty dog. (_A bad pet, a wayward pet, a greedy-hungry-_insistent_ pet, having crept through the shadows to join its master in his bed_…)

_Ba-dum ba-dum._

There is the sound of shifting eiderdown, shifting limbs, shifting thoughts… but he, as always, lies perfectly still beneath downy coverlets, gazing steadily into nothingness. (_Or what would have been nothingness, if monsters like myself did not exist._) The remnants of sleep cleaves to trembling moonstone lashes, gumming them with yawn-tears; the residue of kisses cling to gaunt cheeks—crusting veneers of salt and digestive acids crackling like desiccated bath foam. (_A leisurely meal, relished and unrushed. Like his company's candies, I will consume him oh-so slowly… one lick at a time, a suck and a nip_.) His skin fizzles, almost pleasantly, as beneath the linen sheets dispelled spiders begin to creep once more… (_I offered a strand of salvation only to weave him into my web_.)

_Ba-dumbadum._

"Yes," the red-eyed gloom counters softly, the white abyss of a toothy maw stretching wide, wide, wide against a slender throat. (_I can feel my prize_.) His heart is beating there, having leapt up and lodged itself. (_Has he yet realized..._?) The very sound makes the nightmare purr, every inch of its midnight body shuddering with delight. (_A second organ throbs in time to the fluttering pulse; the rub-rub of mismatched kindling ignites a lilac fire, both in my loins and in his eye_.) "Yes…"

_Badumbadum._

(_He turns his head. Consent_.)

_Badumbadumbadum._

Velveteen lips skim the scars that decorate pale knuckles, as if in mocking apology. (_But it does not matter if I hurt you, abuse you, hate you, kill you… you will want me all the same._) He wonders—amidst a flurry of shallow gasps and the curling of bitty toes— if the other can taste the leather of the riding crop, the perfume of the palace, the rot of his once-prison. (_You promised me thus, vows wafting on winds of decay and despair._) Perhaps his soul is in his skin, oozing from his pores like stuffing from a tattered toy. (_And one day, you will be nothing but a pound of flesh, my lord—eviscerated organs and the empty husk of a broken china doll_.) Or maybe he tastes simply of soap and sweat and stale semen. (_For I will take from you that which is most precious: the gift that God has given humans, but has stolen from all those like me._)

_Badumbadumbastian…_

He doesn't care enough to ask. (_What is it, you say?_)

_Badumbadumsebastian—_

He doesn't care. (_You will give me your love._)

_BadumbadumSebastian—!_

Or so he tells himself. (_Resistance is futile.) _Pointedly. Repeatedly. (_Expected, but in vain; you will fight, and deny, and refuse._) For the truth is far more painful to swallow. (_But it will be for naught._) Viscous saliva is clogging-congesting-cementing his airways; each wheezed pant claws its way from brittle lungs, flavoring his mouth with traces of copper. (_What you have offered will never be returned._) Lest he wish to suffocate, he has no other option. (_Now—_) He opens up wide…

_Sebastian_—!

(_Your soul is mine._)

_Sebadumbadumbadum_—!

And he may as well have pared himself in half, what with how he is now being split: licentious legs lionized by hands that knead and need, tongues tangling as teeth clatter and hips bounce-buckle-buck beneath brutish, blanketing blackness. (_All of your thoughts and feelings, your desires and longings, your hopes and dreams and that little spark of life that brings you joy._) Wrists still chafed from iron shackles are bounded once again, by fingers far stronger than any metal cuff. (_Your all._) In a token display of retribution, he binds the devil in kind: like tea in turn for rod, looped legs repay locked arms. (_Your _everything_._)Trapped in the vice of sinewy thighs, the creature growls in amusement—thrusts and moans. (_That is a soul, my master._) He is rewarded by a whimper. (_It is the heart that you swear no longer exists._)

_BaDumBaDumBaDumBaDum—!_

His heart is ringing in his ears, throbbing in his throat, pulsating in parts that he'd rather not think about, let alone name. (_When will you remember, little boy?_) Hammering against the cage of his chest, he almost feels as if the organ is trying to physically break free, to literally escape. (_It was in your outstretched hand when we two met._) Like the mysterious muscle no longer wanted to reside within him. (_Voluntarily gifted. Your ransom; my price._) Instead, it reaches out, just as its owner had: strains for whatever deliverance lies beyond the depths of the lonely void. (_Now, it is _mine.) Reaching, reaching out… (_Like it or not—and like it you will— you will someday succumb._) Reaching out to— (_And on that day…_)

_BADUMBADUMBADUMBADUM_—!

"Seba— _hng_…! A-ah—! Sebas—!" (_My delectable young master…)_

_BADUM_—

"Sebast_—!_"

(On that day, I will break it into pieces.)

_"AH—!_"

(_And I will savor your bittersweet fragments for all of eternity._)

_Ba-dum_.

**XXX**


	44. Candle xxx General

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. :D

**Author's Note:** My contribution to a Ciel Birthday Collaboration Project with the lovely and talented Madeleine-Elizabeth! I thought we were gonna wait until the 14th to post everything, but seeing as Maddie has already published the accompanying picture on DA (which you can see here: _http(colon)(slash slash)madeleine-elizabeth(dot)deviantart(dot)com(slash)(hashtag)(slash)d4ijm1i_), I figured I'd go ahead and put the fanfic up, myself. :3

Hope you enjoy!**  
**

**XXX**

**Candle**

**XXX**

"_Happy birthday to you_…"

Silken and soft, sonorous and sour. The whispered melody curdles in the corners of the darkened dining room, twisting and twining around the statuesque pair like ribbons on a present. Like spider silk in stale air. Like maggots in corpses and serpents in Eden and formless, faceless shadows whose caresses are far-too-intimate, cleaving greedily to master and servant before swallowing them whole. Gobbled down. Eaten up.

Like cake.

"_Happy birthday to you_…"

Silvery smoke spirals from a single snowy bougie, placed precisely and precariously betwixt sugar-spun roses and sumptuous slivers of strawberry. Pale and knotted, the commemorative decoration protrudes from the mountainous mud of fudge frosting like a macabre, melting tombstone— a grave reminder that, in truth, this fête is nothing more than a celebration of one's fleeting existence. Of the transience of life and the reality of an encroaching death.

One year further from the start. One year closer to the finish. In the golden gleam of the guttering taper, Ciel is reminded that humankind burns the candle at both ends.

There is nothing to celebrate. Nothing to hope for. Nothing to wish for.

"_Happy birthday, young master_…"

And so he does not puff the ending breath, however long his butler waits for it. He holds it in—holds everything in—as weary crimson eyes glitter with the same lifeless faucets as faultless rubies set in porcelain. Once, innumerable birthdays ago, the child had tried to put them both out of their misery. Long before the song's finish—sometimes before it even began—his exasperated sigh would extinguish the ruddy radiance of the merry flame. (After all, he was not a being of light. Not any longer. Not anymore.) And as the earl daintily dabbed dollops of Devonshire cream from his fingertips, he would pretend not to notice the way his butler saved the misshapen bougie. How he recycled the same taper, over and over and over again, as if it were some sort of perverse metaphor. Perhaps it was, really, for with each passing year, it mimicked his own mortality: inevitably distorting, warping, and shrinking, no matter how quickly he attempted—_demanded_— that the candle be snuffed.

It could never be smothered fast enough.

Never fast enough.

"_Happy birthday to you_."

And so another birthday is their punishment.

Ciel sits, stiff-backed and silent, on the very edge of his mahogany throne. Atop his lap, his hands are folded; beneath his seat, his ankles laced. Despite his age, only the very tips of his straining toes are able to reach the murky marble floor. Only the feathery fringes of his hoary hair can be seen through the gloom. Like a sickle moon, the curve of his bangs shimmers an ethereal shade of mercury as it reflects the winking firefly glow of the tiny torch wedged within the cantarella confection of saccharine rot before him. A sputter, a pop; the undulating wick hisses in feral displeasure—, in writhing, spitting agony—, as it drowns in liquidizing chocolate. The plastic pools of molten wax bleed burgundy as they mix with the eviscerated juices of hemorrhaging fruits.

The pastry is an unpalatable mess. Not that he would have been able to consume it, anyway.

"Make a wish," the devil murmurs, in a voice that cracks with the archaic brittleness of autumn leaves. No longer a vision of vibrancy and color, the demon has lingered long-past his prime; he is little more than a slip of memory bound to a body of ashes and dust.

His smiles are gentle now. Starved of cruelty and hatred after so many, many, many years.

His master frowns. _I did, once._

And as the fragile light of life at last extinguishes itself, so too does the final flickering of blue die within the iridescent smolder of scarlet eyes.

**XXX**


	45. Ouroboros xxx General

**Disclaimer: **HAHAHAHAHAHA YOU'RE SILLY NO.

**Author's Note: **I just… needed to write something. 8/ I've been lazy, as of late, eh heh.

**Warnings: **Vague references to SebaCiel, I guess? Also, I like words. This was really just an excuse to play with them.

**XXX**

**Ouroboros**

**XXX**

Childbirth tastes of copper.

A fleeting flavor: rusty flakes of spongy flesh that curdles against the back of his tongue. He swallows, and the flickering fragments of feeling, the silvery slivers of sensation, the hollow haze of hysteria and hyperactive happiness bleeds down his undulating esophagus, only to evaporate into evanescent plumes. The metallic memories are not strong enough to offer substance. They fade… Melt into mercury, into sickly spools of candied cotton, into lucent strands of saccharine saliva that gum his throat with liquescent webs.

And those quivering fibers weave…

Adolescence had been the sweetest of times, anamnesis and nostalgia further sugaring related recollections. Those honeyed cobwebs catch and clog and congest his melding senses, remembrances left suspended and dangling down the gorge of his gullet. Even still: he can smell the ghost of sunshine as it plaintively paws at his sinuses— the silken spice of the season snuffled down in greedy gulps, as if he might be able to catch antiqued summers in his mouth. Behind papery lids, the world is perfumed by buttery dandelions; pollen that had been streaked across button noses and apple cheeks catches in bitter bursts atop his taste buds: souring his senses, but not his mood. Heads of fuzzy yellow tip low in obsequious bows, paying final tribute to lazy days… and a cheese-wheel moon is rolled idly into Heaven, adding a pungent sharpness to the shadows on the grounds. Juvenile fears and mysteries: savory and velvet. Purple twilights, glistening golden-green with fireflies and will-o'-the-wisps, ripple beneath the steady gaze of his mind's eye; the sky is little more than a rich, fruity wine, poured into a gilded bathtub of glow flies and bats. Bubbles form beneath the satin surface—disturbing the blissful dreams of half-drowned fairies— and push onward, upward: blistering and bursting and broiling as smoldering heat rises up from Hell, and the once-eerie radiance of dreamy midnights become mundane sparks of an all-consuming blaze.

Fireflies waver, erupt into embers; their eviscerated corpses taste of ash. _Crunch._ A cloud of slag explodes past pursed lips, the granular remnants caking his chin with a film of macabre makeup. White as maquillage, as arid bones, as purest, cruelest sin. Legs and gears and filaments of iron snag in the gaps between his serrated incisors, grinding possibilities to powder. Dry, coarse. Acerbic.

Shifting… between fingers, between times.

The grains and seeds of revenge mix with saline and wetness; something rises within, the force of it compressing and consuming all else. Doughy. A psyche is being molded. Remolded. Scents of yeast and mildew linger, and he nearly gags on the rawness of it. Unfinished. At the time, Supper's body had been nothing but a wad of pasty mush, quaggy and gelatinous. Slippery intestines, slickened with grease and baby fat, are painstakingly rolled into a suitable form: beaten, baked, and broken, leavened and left to decorate a table. A waif into a wafer, someone might say, for he had been deceptively ordinary in the superficial sense… but inwardly had proven himself unique: a French-named pastry oozing jellified preserves of fury, laced with ribbons of clotted Abandonment. Blessed, despite being forsaken and tossed to the Pits to fester, to roast, and to suffer. To cook. A deity's coveted Grace may have once made a light meal of him, airy as angel food, but hatred is swift to harden him down to his very core. What had been a luxurious cake of the finest flour is now the coarsest of rye breads, dark as night and with little sweetness to speak of. But of the two dishes, the latter promises to be more filling, anyway.

Still, the soul and the heart are far more malleable than any comparable mortal meal; as time wears on, the loaf (and he _had _been a loaf, the lazy thing) softens in the wake of further kneading… Or perhaps his constitution is more akin to a picnic treat: weakened by the picking by wee indulgences, crumbs of sanity and determination carried off by birds and beasties alike. His brittle edges begin to mold—and yes, the faintest suggestion of staleness teases at the corners of delicate senses when his soul is finally, properly gnawed upon— but his _innards_… His innards are quick to mutate, to morph utterly, like a butterfly within its lacquered cocoon. Reverted once again to ichorous threads, metaphysical insides churn themselves from milk to cream to sensuous butter, forbidden emotions serving as the perfect spread for his crusty façade.

Predawn passions permeate and perforate, as piquant as the curry spices that blossom in smoky spirals in the kitchen air. A granular shroud; he can taste them now, feel their grit between clenched teeth. Crushed cocoa beans are unappetizingly acrimonious, but certainly a delicious comparison to draw in light of insatiable snacking: dark and disgusting at first, but easily blended into something sinful and scrumptious. Cimmerian. He chokes on thick swells of the garnish, gasps and groans against its intrusion into his feeble lungs, even as more intimate intrusions plunder fragile orifices. Caramel is secreted from his pores, its tang enhanced by beaded salt, and soon he is leaking the remnants of aforementioned feelings, as well: pallid spurts of spider-webs and butterfly bits and cream, and he is not wrong in thinking that he has become a demon's bonbon.

For in the end, he is indeed consumed as such: the myriad of ethereal flavors savored layer by layer, lapped and licked at like a gourmet lollypop. Slowly… slowly. Ever so slowly, because this succulent spirit is a prize that so many had lusted after, and thus cruelty dictates he should enjoy to the fullest— if only to mock the others. Dutifully, he coils his serpentine tongue about its incorporeal length, massages and molests and rubs his taste buds against even the teensiest of bites; he pulls the stolen meal up from deep within himself just to relish its logos a second time, to make certain he'd digested all that could be sucked from its metaphorical marrow. He licks his lips and suckles and moans with perverse pleasure as the last of it slips down his throat, grateful to have found a way to slake his stomach's rumbling hunger. Simple as burning body fat, really; stores that he hadn't needed before, but for which he is now thankful. Thankful and assuaged, shivering as the cloying essences linger.

And yes, Ciel muses with a satiated smile— lacy lashes lifting to find his starving servant looming sullenly above— his soul is every _bit _as good as he'd been lead to believe.

**XXX**


	46. Pet xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Kuro, or even the basic premise of this fanfic. 8D;

**Author's Note: **I finished reading what exists of Eien Ni and Akiru-chan's story, "What May Come," the other day, and the fact that it is now on hiatus makes me sad. D8 I was really enjoying myself… So I thought maybe I could try to bribe another chapter out of them…? Er, I mean: inspire another chapter via my own fangirlish ravings. XD; (DON'T JUDGE ME. I really wanna know what will happen during Ciel's weekend at Sebastian's! XD) So… here we go? :'D

**Warnings: **A short, derpy, poorly-edited fanfic for Eien Ni and Akiru-chan's fanfic, "What May Come." (As Maddie phrased it, FANFICEPTION.) SebaCiel. :3

**XXX**

**Pet**

**XXX**

"What do you look like?"

Sightless eyes remained casually downcast, gazing blankly at a book resting in a folded lap. As the question— nonchalantly thrown into the silence of the office—tumbled from his lips, willowy fingers stilled atop bumps of braille. His hands weren't the only thing to pause: from across the room, Ciel could hear the sounds of shifting leather, the tinny squeak of a seat's metal spine; his doctor had straightened in his spindly chair, and had likely turned to face him in bemusement. Though Ciel was given no immediate response, the young teen could hear Sebastian's unspoken question, as well as sense the confusion that surely would have permeated it. _What brought this on? _After all, hadn't they (and polite, PC society) not already decided that it was 'the inside that mattered most,' despite how cheesy, trite, and naïve that sort of claim happened to be? And while yes, some might read such statements as the weak defenses of the fat and ugly, in this particular case… Well, _apparently_, Sebastian hadn't anything to be ashamed of. Or so the gossip went. And in truth, it was that very same gossip, that (unconfirmed) claim of good looks, that had inadvertently led to this query: flippant commentary at home inspiring a good deal of restless curiosity.

"Sorry, that was kinda random, wasn't it?" Ciel said into the startled hush, though without any genuine apology in his voice. After all, he doubted he'd actually offended. What he lacked in remorse, however, he made up for in embarrassment: his cheeks turned a splotchy pink as he glanced demurely to his left, nibbling his lower lip. Though he knew it was unwarranted, the child found himself needing to justify such a sudden demand, if only so that Sebastian didn't start to think he was on the verge of becoming shallow and vain, on top of childish. "It's just… I dunno, I hear things. About how handsome you are. Makes me wonder… and it makes me jealous. I mean, I— I know, _someday_, I'll be able to see for myself, but…"

Beside him, seated primly on the couch, the boy's seeing eye dog yawned. The high-pitched whine of it all nearly drowned out the noise of wheels rolling over plush carpet. But though the sound was faint, his sharp ears caught hold of it; Ciel was not surprised to feel a new, gentle heat radiating from a source beside his body, its epicenter somewhere to his right. Neither was he surprised by the ginger touch of large hands coiling (very loosely) around his bony wrists.

"Have you not _already_ 'seen' me for yourself?" the velvet voice of his doctor playfully reminded, lifting petite palms to the curve of his temple. Ciel smiled, instinctively cupping that thin face. Indeed, it wasn't unfamiliar terrain; his thumbs swept affectionately over the high bones of his boyfriend's cheek, the softness of its hollow, the juxtaposing delicacy and strength of its structure.

"Yeah," he then agreed, not without some humor. "But I haven't seen you in _color_."

Sebastian chuckled; the breathy sweetness of the exhalation teased Ciel's heightened senses. Deep within, butterflies of nerves and affection spread that ticklish sensation throughout the rest of his yearning body: from fingertips and nape to heart and belly, migrating towards his loins. In an instant, the entirety of the world felt warmer; Ciel feared his face had turned the same shade of red as the tomatoes he vaguely remembered from childhood. The ones his mother would add to grocery carts already-groaning under the weight of eternally-despised fruits and veggies; the ones Sebastian would sometimes make him eat in sandwiches and salads.

"Shall we make it a game, then? Like my eye color?" the doctor suggested in an impish lilt, turning his head a fraction so as to press a kiss to the base of Ciel's palm. His grin was so wide, its edges fell over the sides of his lover's thin wrist. "Of course, I'd be more than willing to compensate you for every guess… and even _more_ willing to reward you for a correct answer. If you wish to play, that is. And I must confess, I hope you do," Sebastian tacked on as he twined two sets of slender fingers, allowing their joined hands to fall atop his patient's lithe thigh. The coiled muscles therein instinctively tensed, then relaxed. "Call it vanity if you will, but I must admit, I'm interested to hear what you think I look like."

Ciel's grin remained as he considered his doctor's roundabout request. Yes, perhaps it _was_ vanity, to some degree—but Ciel could understand Sebastian's interest. It was human nature to wonder what you looked like in the eyes of the ones you cared for; it was another facet of the desire for reciprocity in relationships. Certainly he had once pondered the same: if Sebastian thought he was attractive, if he considered Ciel worthy his time, effort, affections. But too much of their relationship was already fixated on Ciel and his whims; for now, Sebastian deserved the focus, as well as his commendations. Whatever he could give of those, anyway, in regards to the physical.

"Well," the child began—then hesitated, cocking his head as he considered which words to use. Sebastian only ever gave him the best; he should only be offered the best, in kind. "In general, I guess… I would say you're attractive, like anyone else. Your skin isn't too hot or too cold, too oily or too lumpy. It's got a satin quality to it— it's nice to the touch. Which I assume you've long-since figured out, considering how much I, um, enjoy touching you." Ciel's cheeks darkened further in the wake of such a flustering truth, giving a bodily squirm as Sebastian thanked him with a second, sensual chortle. The exhalation was composed of equal parts pleasure and gratitude, and it added shy teeth to the boy's squirming grin. Thus encouraged, he continued. "You're thin and toned, too, which I like. Not too hairy… though I do like what hair you've got. It's very fine, but thick… Fun to grip when— erhm." Flaming features flaring once more, Ciel trailed weakly off, cursing his insatiable hormones. As if to distract Sebastian from the awkward manner in which he'd ended that sentence, Ciel untangled one of their twined hands: bringing it from his lap to Sebastian's forehead. It worked to some degree; the doctor's murmured mirth melted into a husky hum, and he moaned like a contented cat as Ciel's fingers toyed with the fringe of silken forelocks. Lacing then petting, knotting then smoothing. "A-anyway… As for its color… maybe black?" the teen then guessed vaguely, not sounding overly confident one way or another. Though judging from what he remembered of Rachel's tastes, and from the way Sebastian had just jolted beneath his touch, perhaps he wasn't far off…? "Mom likes 'em tall, dark, and handsome. I know you're tall, and I've been told you're handsome, so I _assume_ you're dark, too."

A pause.

"…your _mom _likes her men tall, dark, and handsome?" Sebastian echoed wryly, almost in disbelief. As if deciding he needed to consider this new perspective from, well, a new perspective, he pulled back a fraction, seemingly torn between bewilderment, shock, and laughter. Since when did the opinions and preferences of Mrs. Phantomhive begin to matter? Unless—ah, there it was: the missing puzzle piece. Now that the doctor had it, the rest was starting to click together. "Dare I ask if this means your mother has been expressing interest in me outside of the office? Interest that goes beyond my—shall we say— _professional _expertise?"

Busted. Ciel flinched, flustered, like a child caught in an act: chewing the inside of his cheek as his eyes shone with a glaze of guilty jealousy… and Sebastian knew. And so, in turn, the doctor rasped another purr; the heat of it danced along the line of his young lover's jaw as he dipped forward, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. A mouth that had—quite adorably—since quirked into a brooding frown, accentuating the forehead that Ciel had furrowed in displeasure. "If this is your way of asking if my mother would 'tap that,'" he dryly droned, "the answer, it seems, is yes."

The brusque and almost-coarse nature of Ciel's spat response caught Sebastian temporarily off-guard, but didn't seem to faze. Rather, it left the doctor snickering; the cloying aroma of Old Spice grew thicker and stronger as he again bowed over his charge, nuzzling against the nape of his neck.

"Jealousy is such an attractive emotion, when done right," Sebastian mused as he nestled, wheedling tone now thoroughly-saturated in tacit merriment. Ciel grunted, as if annoyed, but even then the doctor could feel anxious tension leaving him: his little body long-since trained to relax again Sebastian's, to lean into and savor each embrace. "And you, as you do all others, wear it beautifully."

"Happy to hear you take such pleasure from my pain, you sadist," Ciel returned half-heartedly, trying his best not to giggle when Sebastian nibbled a particularly sensitive juncture near his throat. Cheater. "No wonder you became a doctor. You say you like helping people, but really, you just enjoy watching them writhe."

The faux bitterness (and unintended suggestion) in the breathy retort had Sebastian leering, vainly attempting to suppress his own giggles. Well, that wasn't a lie… But it wasn't the truth, either. "Oh, no, I assure you," the elder man thus corrected, in something very close to a velveteen purr, "you are the only one—patient or otherwise— who I enjoy watching… writhe."

The simpered innuendo lingered heavily between them, and Ciel (who'd never had a problem with his ears, thank you) did not fail to notice it… Nor the way it was underscored by the press of a warm hand to his heart, fingers fluttering over a perking nipple. He grumbled, turning vibrantly fuchsia; Sebastian sneered, smugness oozing from him in near-palatable waves. "Though I will confess to being amused. And a touch flattered," the doctor eventually added, lacy lashes wafting the faintest of breezes over Ciel's ruddy cheek. "It seems I am a sort of catnip to the Phantomhives… Which would explain your current flush and glassy gaze. Intoxicated by my presence, hmm…?"

_Such gall_. The teen indulged in an inelegant snort, as if to mock his narcissistic companion. All the same, he couldn't help but privately concur—swallowing a second sardonic sound as greedy fingers eagerly displaced the book he'd long-since forgotten, suddenly interested in the real estate of his boyfriend's lap. Every touch fizzled beneath Ciel's tingling skin; he was willing to admit he was more than a little love-drunk. "More powerful than laughing gas," he drawled in agreement, the retort trailing into giggles as his hips were caught and claimed, and he was bodily hefted atop Sebastian's parted knees.

"I'm more fun, too."

"And so modest."

It was Sebastian's turn to snort now, relaxing against his seatback as Ciel's legs slid comfortably through the gaps in his armrests. "I've never understood the value of modesty, false or otherwise," the doctor confessed—rather snootily— as his thumbs massaging warm circles into jutted hip bones. A shirt rode up; jeans rode down. "It smacks of lying to me."

"Mmm," Ciel hummed in response, vibrant eyes hooding themselves as the lazy reply escaped smirking lips. "Egotism. How attractive."

"Well, it must be," Sebastian returned swiftly, tone light but undeniably defensive. "If I weren't attractive, you wouldn't be so jealous right now. Which, speaking of, I find _wholly_ flattering." As if to underscore this admission, one hand fluttered briefly from its comfortable perch atop Ciel's waist, lifting instead to sweep down the slope of his button nose. The boy's features scrunched in faux displeasure. So cute. "Possessiveness might not generally be encouraged, but I can't deny I find it rather endearing in you… Still, everything in moderation, as they say. Allow me to set your mind at ease." Wearing a grin that Ciel couldn't see, but he could most certainly hear—and soon feel, pressed lovingly against the ridges of his trembling knuckles— Sebastian simpered and cooed an adoring oath. "I promise you've nothing to worry about. Your mother is a lovely woman, but I've no interest in her. Cats are nice, but kittens are cuter."

"…oh?" At this, the boy arched a single eyebrow, leaning as far back as safety (and Sebastian) would allow. With a regal arrogance that did not seem entirely-out-place on the pampered teen's face, Ciel parodied a huff and demanded, "Are you comparing me to a lowly pet? One I am allergic to, no less?"

The doctor wasted no time in shaking his head, even if his companion could not see it. "Certainly not," he then added, just in case the rustle of his collar or the squeak of abraded leather wasn't enough to tip Ciel off. "If anything, you're the one who has _me_ on a leash. Just as I said I feared you would, that first day—you've got me staying, shaking and coming as you please."

Sebastian's (almost ironic) feral grin widened, its edge wolfish and deviant. Again, there was nothing wrong with Ciel's ears— or his memories, for that matter. The now-glaring entendre behind the old concern had the younger man turning so scarlet he almost looked purple. Even still, flirting was—for all intents and purposes—a sort of game… One of the few that Ciel could feasibly enjoy, nowadays. He missed games, and thus refused to quit or surrender: instead relishing what little time they found to entertain these playfulness urges. Almost as much as he relished the idea of winning, if one could win in such instances. (And yes, he could.)

"If you're my pet, then…" Ciel began slowly, carefully, skillful fingers slipping up and down the muscled expanse of Sebastian's chest, pausing only to tweak at lapels and plastic buttons, "Would you mind terribly if I marked you as such? Just so the world knows you've already a master..."

…what?

Sebastian felt his spine— and other, less appropriate body parts— stiffen noticeably in surprise. A surprise not only derived from the frisky sweep of adroit hands, but also the sweetly seductive suggestion itself: not quite uncharacteristic at this juncture of their relationship, but still wholly unexpected. Of course, "unexpected" certainly did not mean "unwanted;" the doctor thrilled at the (potentially) wanton query, every inch and cell of him encouraging Ciel to do just that. "Not at all. My body is yours to do with as you please…"

The beautiful teen beamed.

And that sinful smile was the last thing Sebastian saw before willingly blinding himself: closing his crimson eyes as his boyfriend leaned closer, laughter on his breath, scandalous promise in his glittering gaze…

…and something that chimed in his grasp…?

**X**

"Hm? Oh… That's odd."

"What is it, Mom?"

Once again playing chauffeur to her son, Rachel Phantomhive frowned, observant stare darting. Now it was on Ciel, who was now shooting her a curious glance from the passenger seat; now it flitted, again falling on his canine, who was obliviously lounging around in the back. For the last few minutes, she had been thoroughly scrutinizing the latter in the rear-view mirror, utterly convinced that _something_ was different about the dog. Something was out of place. And although it had taken her a bit, she'd _finally_ put her finger on what. (Metaphorically, anyway. Both of her hands had remained on the wheel. This time.)

"It's Sebastian," she then answered—clarified, really— only half-noticing the way that Ciel immediately straightened beside her. She was still too focused on her recent discovery, lips pursing in bemusement as she processed the realization. "His collar is missing. Isn't that strange? I'd thought that buckle was sturdy—it was made of metal, after all— but I suppose it must have fallen off in the hospital." It was the only thing that made sense, really, even if it… well, even if it didn't really make sense. It'd been a leather collar, for goodness' sake; those things didn't just wear out. But it's not as if someone would have _stolen _it. Or would have taken it off intentionally; what would have been the point of that? "I suppose we'll have to remember to ask if any of the doctors or nurses have seen it, next wee— Hm?"

Blinking once, torn abruptly from her plans and ponderings, Rachel glanced towards Ciel—startled to find him giggling in a way she hadn't heard or seen in years. Bent a bit at the waist, smirk peeping through the slots of clawing fingers, he chuckled breathily, as if trying to muffle the sound: cheeks pink both from mirth, and from his futile attempts at smothering burbling glee.

"Sweetheart…?" his mother questioned—almost sounding _concerned_—as she reached out to touch Ciel's shuddering shoulder. He allowed the gesture, but did not respond to it—too caught up in the throes of some secret amusement. "What's so funny?"

But her child's only answer was a shake of his head and an enigmatic smirk.

"Let's just get Seb a new one. I don't think we'll be getting the old one back."

**XXX**


	47. Purple xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **Wrote this wee drabble to amuse myself. If it amuses anyone else, that'll be a nice bonus. Some of my long-time readers may get the joke. But it doesn't really matter. XD

**Warnings: **This is the purplest thing I have ever written. 8| SebaCiel. Thrown together and edited in an hour or so. Also, you should look "purple" up on thesaurus(dot)com.

**XXX **

**Purple**

**XXX**

"…is this new?"

The haze of drowsiness finally leaving his vision, Ciel blinked in bemusement at the outfit in which Sebastian was currently dressing him. Never in his life had he seen so much purple. The satin blouse now swathing his torso was a dapper shade of amaranthine, bedecked in buttons and braided-cord trimming of a plum hue. His vest was a dark strain of amethyst, made to match the jewelry that Sebastian had surreptitiously slipped into his earlobes and onto his thumb. Violaceous stockings had been rolled to his knees; wine-colored shorts and laces brought the ensemble together, capped off with a sprig of spring violets threaded through his boutonniere.

The earl's butler smirked sweetly as he stood from bended knee, smoothing sleep-rumpled hair from his tamer's mismatched eyes. For once, he parted those hoary locks to the right, bringing focus to Ciel's lilac iris. It did, after all, better compliment today's apparel. "It is, my lord," he willingly confessed, swallowing a mouthful of laughter when his catty charge batted his hands away, muttering about incompetence. Sebastian bowed slightly, moving back a step; Ciel styled his tresses _properly_, then twisted away from his servant: fingers scrounged atop the bed-stand in search of his patch. He found it easily enough, but instead of being its usual black, the leather was now a deep mulberry.

Ciel's lips pursed into a thin line, his small body tensing in irritation. What the hell? "Dare I ask _why_ you decided to purchase and parade me around in such ridiculous foppery?" the young nobleman demanded, thrusting the garish new patch into his butler's chest. Arms crossed in a show of discontentment, he nevertheless waited for his butler's (necessary) assistance. "I'd not wear it at all, were I not already running late." Or were he capable of changing clothes by himself. But he wasn't, and he had a sinking feeling that Sebastian would not be willing to help him in such an endeavor. The butler seemed awfully pleased with himself, as well as this gaudy suit.

"Whatever the reason," the leering Sebastian cooed, dutifully looping the patch's cords into a comfortably tight knot, "I am most pleased that the young master has deemed my humble selection worthy of wearing. You honor me, my lord."

The blatant flattery was answered with a snort. "I still fail to understand what possessed you to buy something as tacky as this," Ciel dourly groused… though in truth, it _was_ a handsome set. Despite the unusual coloring (unusual for his closet, anyway), the garments were well-tailored, classily cut, and perfectly coordinated. But he'd never say that aloud; he hardly needed to give Sebastian another reason to gloat. "When have I ever expressed an interest in purple? I doubt the queen would be happy to see me in such. And you've never been fond of anything with strains of red in it. So why this?"

The demon's enigmatic grin remained as Ciel glanced swiftly upward, their sidelong gazes catching, holding. He blinked owlishly, once, when the elder's expression notably softened; a white-gloved hand lifted gingerly, threading an unruly forelock behind his master's ear. Sebastian's smile gained teeth when the earl's new earring caught the rosy light of morning, casting lavender glitter upon the far wall. "My lord is more practical than sentimental," the butler then chuckled, in a black-velvet voice that teased Ciel in a number of ways. "Presumptuous though it was, I assumed he might find more pleasure in fabrics than in flowers. Perhaps the language of the latter allows for more delicacy in phrasing one's point… However, as a devil of a butler, I could hardly resist the temptation of a—shall we say—_blunter_ message."

_Message? _The young teen frowned, trying to ignore the smoldering tingles that lingered wherever Sebastian touched him. "Message?" he echoed again (aloud this time), coughing once to clear his throat of unwanted huskiness. Damn hormones. "What sort of message could you _possibly_ convey with this—this…? _This!_" He gestured vaguely at his person, confusion furrowing his brow.

But if he honestly expected a straight-forward answer, then Ciel hadn't been paying proper attention to how his demon preferred to operate. Rather that respond, the butler's amusement only grew: eyes flashing a hungry vermillion as willowy fingers slipped from temple to shoulder, from shoulder to chest, from chest to… "I assure you," Sebastian silkily vowed, "that I meant it as the _highest_ of compliments."

"Meant _what?_"

On the verge of succumbing to his most-basic of urge (shouting, swearing, stamping his feet like a frustrated toddler), Ciel glowered up at his inscrutable servant, looking very close to _pouting_. Silly child; he never seemed to realize that such outbursts were exactly what made him so much fun to play with… But there was teasing, and then there was torture. Besides—they had a schedule to uphold. Thus choosing to relent—at least to a degree— Sebastian indulged in a sonorous chortle, then dipped scandalously low: breathing a heated hint into his charge's pinking ear.

And when Ciel finally found the time to follow that suggestion ("_English is such a flowery language, hm? Why not broaden your vocabulary…? I've left the thesaurus open in the library…_") he turned such a vibrant shade of mauve, it was difficult to tell where his skin ended, and where his clothing began.

But a pull of the bell-string later—after nonchalantly slipping his violets into Sebastian's own buttonhole—, it hardly mattered anyway.

**XXX**


	48. Swansong xx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **I own no more than usual. Which would be nothing.

**Author's Note: **This was inspired by a submitted Kuroshitsuji headcanon on tumblr. I believe the confession was something along the lines of "Ciel sings when he thinks no one is listening, and Sebastian thinks it's adorable so he pretends not to notice." I can't recall who submitted it, but I thought it had the potential of becoming a cute-and-creepy fic. Unfortunately, "cute" died at some point while writing this. 8/ Oops…?

**Warnings: **SebaCiel snuck in there. (NO REGRETS.) Lots of allusions. Kinda dark. It's hard to work my brain right now (I think I'm getting sick), so more edit-fail than usual.

**XXX**

**Swansong**

**X**

_Mine eye is consumed because of grief; it waxeth old because of all mine enemies._

~Psalm 6:7

**XXX**

The _click _of an opening chamber resonates through the empty night like the first beat of a metronome. Bullet shells clatter and roll; ghosting about in haphazard patterns, the casings make an odd whirling sound as they troll from barrel to desk ledge. A makeshift percussion: a tinny chorus of bells. And beneath their chiming, a steady thrum echoes— the drum of a young boy's heartbeat. Slow. Stable. No longer exaggerated by adrenaline; instead, calm to the point of apathy. The organ pulses out a rhythm, which the bored nobleman uses to his melodic advantage.

"_Who killed Cock Robin?_

_I, said the Sparrow,_

_with my bow and arrow,_

_I killed Cock Robin._"

The juvenile strain leaves his lips with less breath than a whisper; at first, it isn't readily apparent if the child even realizes he is singing. His eyes—mismatched and narrowed in concentration—are focused on his work; his fingers—sure and adroit— are flicking through a collection of bore brushes. Slender handles clack against one another in time to the tune; he makes his selection, tying a fresh handkerchief around the rear of his pistol with an unnecessary flourish. Theatrical. A performance for the shadows, for himself, for Queen and Country, unseen by anyone else. The second in one night.

"_Who saw him die?_

_I, said the Fly,_

_with my little eye,_

_I saw him die_."

The pretty earl's musical murmurs are momentarily interrupted by a muted sniff. Faintly annoyed by some tickling sensation, a small hand lifts to bat a matted lock of hair behind an ear; his wrist butts against his cheek, smearing a droplet of crimson across the pale of cool flesh. A macabre sort of rouge, the rest of which has since dried, cracked, and started to flake. The ashen fragments of ruby fluids mix with old gunpowder atop the desk, and the whole of the room reeks— the air pungent with the odors of oil, copper, and metal.

"_Who caught his blood?_

_I, said the Fish,_

_with my little dish,_

_I caught his blood._"

He dips wiry bristles into the proper solvent; the bell-sweet tinkle of brush against bottleneck— like an orchestral conductor at his stand— resounds hauntingly. Excess fluids fall with the crystalline peal of chimes: _drips_ and _drops _and _plops_. Waste not, want not; _what a waste of a life that man had led._ There is no point in crying over spilt (_blood_) milk, but the queen will surely weep, all the same. If only for show. Because someone will have to, and he will not.(How could he, when he no longer has tears? Only tea and cleansing solutions enter this room.) As the child begins to clean, a delicate _scritch-scritch-scritch _fills the darkness of the opulent study, like moldering nails against the inner lid of a casket.

"_Who'll dig his grave?_

_I, said the Owl,_

_with my pick and shovel,_

_I'll dig his grave_."

The heat of his breath leaves a mist against the mirror-smooth surface of his Collier Flintlock revolver; he picks at its muzzle, then begins to scour the dirt from the gun's cylinders, ends, rod. Bits and pieces fall apart, only to be hastily set back in place, and shined to such perfection that it's as if nothing had ever been broken. And all the while, the boy mumbles his customary chant, fluting voice tripping mindlessly over trilled notes:

"_Who'll carry the coffin?_

_I, said the Kite,_

_if it's not through the night,_

_I'll carry the coffin._"

"I rather think my lord would lack the physical strength for such a task, if he does not mind my saying so," came a silken voice from the entryway, its speaker nearly as black as the midnight hour itself. _Nearly_. Through the chilled veil of autumn gloom, twin embers are flickering scarlet with amusement; the demon's enchanted irises are as luminous as any glowing candelabra. The little earl pauses momentarily upon sensing his intruder; where he'd been almost-silent before, he now falls fully-so. In turn, the butler's serpentine grin widens a bit, its corners contorting in mild disappointment. "Oh, no need to stop on the account of a lowly servant," he purrs, spanning the gap between them on a bridge of silhouettes. "The young master's voice is most endearing. Will he not continue? No? Oh dear, does my presence give him stage fright? Perhaps if we shared in the next verse…"

"_Who'll bear the pall?_

_We, said the Wren,_

_both the cock and the hen,_

_We'll bear the pall_."

The demon's vocals—as velvet as the caress that traces the outer curve of the mortal's throat— melds most harmonically with the other's quiet whispers, tenderly coaxing more power and volume into the shared descant. As one verse dwindles into another, so too does the devil's accompaniment fade; he is ignored like all slaves are, even as he rests his smirking head atop his king's crown. Willowy arms brace themselves against the fine upholstery of his master's chair; said master begins to polish his well-loved weapon, already preparing for tomorrow's battles.

"_Who'll sing a psalm?_

_I, said the Thrush,_

_as she sat on a bush,_

_I'll sing a psalm_."

_And such a pretty psalm she sings_, muses the monster, idle fingers dancing too low and silvery smile stretching too wide. It is far too lovely a song for whom it is sung: a collaborator whose grisly end has brought his charge another step closer to his ultimate goal. A small victory—one that many would argue had not been worth its price. But the Phantomhive is not known for pity or caution, and prepubescent recklessness has only been exacerbated by hormones, impatience, and feelings of entitlement. He had cared not a whit that his prey had been a high-ranking official, and had not hesitated in removing said piece from the chessboard—without, perhaps, considering possible ramifications, or his opponent's future plans. The morning light is sure to find his tamer in a good deal of trouble; a guard dog gone rabid, the public would say: foaming at the mouth and fighting against his leash. Like all aristocracy— mad with power, genetics twisted. Insane. The creature chuckles (a honeyed hum), because the masses, despite their ignorance, are not _entirely_ wrong. It is hard to see insanity in the crisp, confident movements of his earl, but his is a trained eye; the public labels his lord a heartless being, but their mistake is understandable. The state of his soul now-withstanding, the child has always had a _heart_—it had simply been turned to stone by the gazes of boyhood beasts… and now is beginning to splinter and groan, collapsing under the weight of an empire. During his years of contracted servitude, the butler has dared repairs: built up from shaky foundations with metaphorical wood and clay, only to see his work washed away; bricks and mortar had also been tried, but would not stay. Iron and steel bent and bowed; silver and gold were stolen away, rescued, and kidnapped again. All attempted improvements have ended with disaster, mayhem, and internal rot. So instead, the demon has taken to watching his tamer at night, all night, every night… if only to more-thoroughly enjoy the sight of his gradual, inevitable collapse.

"_All the birds of the air_

_fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,_

_when they heard the bell toll_

_for poor Cock Robin._"

The revolver glistens in rays of moonlight, pristine as the day it had first been purchased. Ivory fangs wink like distant stars, and the space between them lessens: satin lips caressing the shell of an ear, rosy tongue dipping salaciously inward—as if in mimicry of his master's bore brush. A sonorous chortle, a staccato stiffening. The earl shudders as the hush left in the wake of his nursery rhyme is lovingly filled by his sensual servant: each familiar note disturbingly prognostic as the demon coos his lullaby.

"_London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…_"

And fall it (_he_) does—against the desk, against the floor. Mounting pressures build; his back arches, bows, and rises, only to—in true fashion— fold against the forces that ride him from above, below, outside, in. Out and in, and again and again, as all the birds of the air fall in time— a-sighing and a-sobbing (one crooning "_nevermore_") as the horizon flushes burgundy— and the sound of Sunday bells swallows the wuthering of the moor, and the panting of the demon, and the ever-progressive crumbling of the young boy's ruptured mind: memories tumbling before hazy eyes like wreckage and debris.

_If mankind was able to express the true depths of its sorrows with words alone,_ the butler had once decreed, smiling his most beautiful, terrible smile, _I hardly think that humans would have needed to invent music. _

"…_my fair lady_."

**XXX**


	49. Jewelry xxx Bicentennial

**Disclaimer: **Lolnope.

**Author's Note: **Inspired by a post I saw on the Kuroheadcanons tumblr page. I could have gone a bunch of different directions with it, but… Well, I guess this is the one I chose. 8D; Short, sweet, and stupid, I know; I just wanted to do something for Mother's Day. ^^;

**Warnings: **Part of the "Bicentennial" series. Takes place a few years after "666." …rather obviously. XD; OCs and stuff (thank you, Maddie, for their shells, lawlz). Allusions to commercials. Fluff? Crap editing, because I decided I wanted to write this at 4 and get it posted before midnight, lawlz.

**XXX**

**Jewelry**

**XXX**

"And just _what_ is this?"

After being so addressed, the little girl immediately began nibbling on the tip of her pudgy pointer finger. A nervous habit for most children, perhaps, but her parents had since realized she was not like most children; instead, she mused as she chewed, and chewed as she mused. For a time—as she considered her response—, her steady gaze remained locked on the swatch of floor between her spread legs, and the tiny treasures spread out upon her romper-clad thighs. The cogs in her mind turned, formulating a reply… And soon, her head was twisting, the curls of her dark pigtails dancing as she tilted her bitty chin, cinnamon eyes bright with intelligence. Bright, but already guarded in defense. Her forehead puckered, and she removed her hand from her mouth with a soft _pop_. "It's a brace-lit," she informed in her usual, quiet lisp, the steady words steeped in three years of collected knowledge. "It's for your arm."

Crouched before his literalist of a daughter, aforementioned bracelet dangling from the perch of his slender finger, Sebastian opened his mouth to berate her… But then shook his head, deciding against it. She may have _known _what he'd meant and denied him a proper response, but she _did_ answer the question—and truthfully, at that. Evasive behavior was to be expected from three year olds; there was no need to blow this out of proportion. Rolling his eyes and gathering his patience, then, the devil tried again, flicking his wrist so that the offending piece of jewelry bounced. Its mismatched beads clattered against one another as the faceted plastic gems caught the light that streamed into the living room.

"_Asmus_," Sebastian gently warned, furrowing his brow as his stern stare narrowed a fraction. "Where did you find this bracelet? I know it isn't yours… I do not recall your mother or I ever purchasing you anything like it. And your aunts and uncles have not given you any presents, lately, eith—"

"It wasn't a present," Asmus cut off coolly. Her father stilled at the interruption. Good. Progress.

"… I beg your pardon?" If it wasn't a present, then…?

"It wasn't a present. It _is _a present," the little one more fully explained, tinkering with the miscellaneous bits, pieces, and knickknacks that rested in her lap. Shiny clusters of junk, really: discarded necklace chains, hunks of fool's gold, gum wrappers that her brother had folded into cranes. Things collected and things forged; the habits of little crows. "Dat's why I gave it to you."

"…it's for me?" The elder demon's glower softened a bit around the edges, though the adhesive known as confusion kept it firmly affixed to his face. "What for? Where did you _get_ it?" He scrutinized the bracelet again—cheap gold and glass rubies, strung together on an elastic thread. Certainly a piece unlike anything else in his possession, or anything else he had ever expressed an interest in. (Usually, a prerequisite for anything he considered owning was that it had to conform to some basic guidelines of good taste. For starters, it couldn't look like it'd come from the bargain bins of Goodwill.) Blinking rapidly, he returned his attention to his eldest, still vaguely bemused. "…_why_?"

Asmus shrugged her thin shoulders, hunkering over a broken bicycle bell. It made a faint _ping_ of sound whenever she flicked its brass tab. "I got it from the park… Mama said dat we needed birdie-practice 'n so he took me 'n Toth there while you were makin' waffles at work. But this morning on the TV after Ponies it said that today was Muther's Day, and that mamas want jew'ry, and so when a girl at the park put the brace-lit down, I grabbed it wif my mouf an' flew away."

…oh.

Sebastian contemplated his daughter's confession for a long moment, his normally-schooled countenance suddenly touched by notable surprise. Mother's Day? He glanced quickly to his left, where a calendar hung on the kitchen wall. He'd never personally paid much attention to mortal holidays, but his children had inherited "Uncle Ron" and "Uncle Finny's" love for cartoons; corporate America kept all four very much "in the know" via product-pumped commercial breaks. This was not particularly _new_ information: Toth had once asked Sebastian if he owned Kay, since "every kiss begins with them" and he saw his parents exchange quite a few, and Asmus had insisted that they leave Coca Cola out for Santa on Christmas eve, swearing up and down that brand-name soda was the only thing that he (and polar bears) drank. And then, right before Valentine's Day… Well, anyway. Giving his head a second shake— to clear it, this time around— Sebastian breathed an airy chuckle and offered his daughter an exasperated smile for her efforts. "…If this is a gift for Mother's Day," he questioned in vague amusement, "why are you not giving it to your Mama?"

The child didn't miss a beat.

"Mama said he likes silver better."

"…did he," Sebastian drawled, tone as flat as the expression he wore. Asmus didn't seem to notice the change to his visage, focusing instead on stacking all of the coins she'd found this past month and collected in her pockets. Forty-one cents didn't make for much of a tower, but it _did_ make a nice sound when it toppled.

"Mhm," the fledgling returned as she played. "Also, he said that Mamas are usually the ones who have the babies, and that you did that, even though you're Daddy, so you deserved the brace-lit more. And that I can give him earrings for Fadder's Day instead."

"…" Raking his free hand through his loose forelocks, Sebastian leveled a heavy sigh— pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to sort the unnecessary details from the information that he wanted. In essence, this all seemed to come down to the fact that his daughter was a thief. "So, in honor of it being Mother's Day, you _stole_ a bracelet from some poor girl you saw in the park?" he translated, the words curt with condemnation and tone cold with disapproval. Her father's apparent anger made the young girl pause, finally turning to meet his eyes… but his virulent emotions did nothing to affect her casual expression, nor her general sense of apathy.

"Yup," Asmus thus returned, undaunted.

"You realize that stealing is _bad_, correct?" the elder devil pressed, seemingly irritated. The bracelet jostled as he brandished it, waggling the band back and forth in his daughter's face as if it were a reprimanding finger. "It is a _naughty_ thing to do, and if anyone caught you, you would be in very _serious_ trouble. Humans put people who steal into _jail. _Do you understand that?"

"Uh-huh." She was lining her origami gum wrappers into rows, now, from largest to smallest… Though she did make certain to keep a respectful watch on her father as he continued his verbal tirade. The demonling might have been born a monster, but she hadn't been raised as an animal; there was a difference between personifying evil and having no manners. "I understand."

"Are you _sorry_ for having done something bad, then?" Sebastian persisted curtly, trying to shame his child with an aloof aura and a standoffish stare. He watched her from down the slope of his steep nose, imperious and irate. And all the while, the wielded jewelry wavered in his grasp; all the while, Asmus regarded her father dully, utterly unabashed.

"No."

"…I see." At this, Sebastian's purse-lipped scowl contorted upon his pale face— twisting into a slow, sweet grin as his glimmering eyes shone vermillion with glee. "Oh, precious girl," he then cooed, chuckling as he slipped the bracelet properly onto his wrist. His beam brightened all the more as he regarded the present, cheeks a ruddy red with delight as contentment squeezed at his chest. They grow up so fast, but _oh—_the joy, the _bliss_ in watching them learn and mature and thrive. Asmus would one day be a first-rate devil, and it all began with lovely little moments like this. Sebastian thought be might cry, he really did… "I am so very proud of you. So proud, and so touched," he rasped in a whisper, too choked with love and gratitude to speak any more coherently. Reaching out—beads clicking, romper rustling— the demon pulled his hatchling into his waiting arms, squeezing her tight and nuzzling her temple. "Truly, this is the best gift I ever could have received."

"…"

For a long while, Asmus said nothing in response to this—merely allowed herself to be cuddled, hiding her face in the crook of Sebastian's neck when she feared she might look too pleased, or too pink. (She was, after all, her Mama's daughter. Or… um, her Father's daughter, now? Or… wait.) She frowned, pulling away enough to eye Sebastian in confusion. "…so… are you still Daddy, or are you Mama, now?" she innocently inquired, batting long eyelashes in a show of mild bewilderment.

Sebastian chortled, lightly kissing her forehead. "Are you Toth when you open his Christmas and birthday presents?"

"No…"

"Then I am still Daddy, regardless of this Mother's Day gift," he declared, smiling softly as he set his daughter back upon the ground. She returned his expression happily before returning to her toys, giggling when Sebastian bopped her on the button nose. "But speaking of your mother," he cheerfully added, still admiring his new adornment as he stood and straightened. "I had best go find him."

"Find Mama?" Although her attention had never been famed for its staying power— in fact, she had technically already returned to her games—, Asmus nevertheless managed to stop humming the Star Trek theme long enough to ask the most infamous of childhood questions: "…why?" Not that she particularly _cared_ about what Daddy wanted with Mama; it just seemed a query worth posing. Since Daddy had wasted her time with so many silly questions, himself. It was fair, and all.

Of course, in the end, it was just as well that she wasn't looking for a detailed answer, because Sebastian had no intention of giving one. Not until she was about 13 years older, anyway. (And even then, the less descriptive he had to be, the better.)

"Well, it is Mother's Day, as you so astutely pointed out," the devil beamed, all but skipping off in the direction of the bedroom. "And since he was kind enough to forfeit this bracelet for my sake, I should like to give your Mama a present of my own."

"Oh. Alright, then," Asmus returned blandly, despite being aware that her father was no longer paying her much notice. (Well, she had to have gotten her own short span from _somewhere_.) Unconcerned by the apparent lack of audience, the fledgling unfolded an aluminum swan, turned it into a delicate foil airplane, and murmured after Sebastian: "Just make sure to use your indoor voice when you give Mama all of that new Kay-stuff. Toth is napping."

**XXX**


	50. Starstruck xxx Bicentennial

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **This quickly-written/poorly edited piece of derp is the result of a conversation with Maddie. So it's her fault. Again.

**Warnings: **Part of the "Bicentennial" series, post "666"/"Jewelry." Fanboy Sebastian. OCs and George Clooney. Yeah, that's right.

**XXX**

**Starstruck**

**XXX**

**4:34 PM**

"—the movie gonna have horsies in it? 'Cause I saw a carriage and I like horsies and I think we should get one and name it Loki and—"

"—_sure_ he's not Grand-papa, Daddy? Or related t' us? 'Cause he real'y looks—"

"Hey, welcome back," an absentminded Ciel called from the study, glancing up from his paperwork when the front door slammed. He'd been able to hear his family's approach from half-way across the building, so their appearance, despite being earlier than anticipated, wasn't much of a surprise; he and Sebastian had yet to teach their four-year-olds the epoch-honored tradition of slinking like shadows, of sneaking about as silent silhouettes. (It seemed a waste of effort to attempt now, seeing as children their age were incapable of shutting up.) "How was the location shoot?"

"It was fun! We watched behind orange cones and bars and stuff. There were lots of people and trucks and cranes and video-cameras. And yelling. I liked when they yelled 'cut!' And 'new take!' I like new things. Like movie sets. I hadn't been to a movie set before," the ramble-happy Asmus reminded, as if her parents were unaware of this. Nevertheless, Ciel listened indulgently, twisting his spindly chair away from his desk so that his daughter could scamper over and clamor onto his lap, thus making their conversation more intimate. Her bitty feet— clad in glossy Mary-Janes and frilly socks—floundered back and forth as she scrambled, her pink dress wrinkling and riding up her little legs. Once she'd settled atop Mama's knee, she smoothed her skirts (like a lady), fluffed her hair (like a lady), and frowned disapprovingly— like Sebastian. It was still a bit disconcerting to see his butler's old glower grace a young girl's round face. "Daddy said he was sad that you didn't want to come, though."

At this, the once-earl snorted, slipping Sebastian's (stolen) spectacles from his nose and toying with the plastic temples between his fingers. "Did he? I'm so sure," Ciel drawled, gaze flicking over to the devil in question. Sebastian returned the glance with a smile, busily helping Toth wrestle off his green windbreaker. Once the boy was free, the younger of the twins shuffled forward to join his sister: draping himself across Ciel's other knee and chewing on his forefinger. He looked expectantly up at his mother, mutely asking for affection; Ciel offered him as much in the form of a tender pat, though his attentions were still on his husband. "You do seem the sort to get off on rubbing infidelity in someone's face."

"You _wound_ me," Sebastian retorted with an affronted gasp, a hand leaping to his chest as he tried to keep a tickled grin from overtaking his lips. In Ciel's lap, the twins exchanged bemused glances. Asmus made a show of shrugging her shoulders, thus prompting her brother to seek out a new source of knowledge.

"Mama, what's 'in-fa-dell-itty' mean?" Toth inquired, giving the earl's sleeve a demanding tug. Ciel's teasing smirk softened a fraction as he again regarded his son, fighting the urge to tell him that infidelity meant a whole world of pain for his father.

"Use context clues," he encouraged instead, watching from the corner of his eye as his old butler folded three autumn jackets over wire hangers and hung them in the closet. "What do you think it means?"

The apartment quieted for a moment as Toth considered, thoughts deep and intense enough to scrunch his button nose. As Sebastian meandered over to join his flock—pulling a stool from the island and turning it to face the rest of his family— the young boy formulated his hypothesis. "Well… Daddy seemed t' liked rubbin' his cheek 'gainst George Cwoony's face. Is that what infidelity means?"

A pause.

"…close," Ciel then returned with a thin smile, irises flashing a bloody vermillion as he glanced once more at Sebastian. Sebastian, who had nearly topped from his seat in surprise—palms out and waving wildly as if trying to bat away his child's unintended accusations.

"M-my lord, it is not at all what it sounds like!" the once-butler reassured, a touch of anxious laughter coloring his frantic words. He _must _be nervous, to have regressed so quickly to archaic honorifics. Still, though the elder demon's cheeks had turned a heady pink, the hue was more reminiscent of flustered exasperation than it was of rosy embarrassment. It was a detail that Ciel took some comfort in. "We barely even _saw _George Clooney, it was so packed. But he did come and mingle with the fans for a few moments, and we were lucky enough to be near the head of the throng when he did… I wanted to tell him how much I enjoy his work, but the noise was incredible, so I had to lean right up next to him to be heard. Then we shook hands and that was that. Right, loves?" He gestured encouragingly at his fledglings, as if to seek out their validation.

"George Cwoony touched my head," Toth announced cheerfully— in lieu of a more relevant or customary confirmatory phrase—, pointing to his crown as if to indicate where the star had set his hallowed hand.

"So we shall never wash your hair again," Sebastian sweetly decreed, chuckling when Ciel rolled his eyes. "I am kidding," he then tacked on, noticing how his child's eyes had lit up in delight at the prospect. The sunny beam immediately grew cloudy; Toth groused against his mother's thigh, bitter at his father for having gotten his hopes up. "In any case, it was an exciting and memorable outing. That having been said, I'm off to prepare supper. Then perhaps we can all watch _Fantastic Mr. Fox_ to commemorate the day."

"Sounds like a plan," Ciel agreed, tone light and expression innocent as his husband stood and bowed. Once the former servant had wandered off to the kitchen, however, his expression fell flat; he leveled his children a somber stare, brow arching, as he blandly demanded: "…so what really happened?"

The twins didn't miss a beat.

"Daddy shrieked like a little girl who'd eaten a helium bal'oon and said a bunch of crazy stuff too fast for anyone t' hear—I think somthin' 'bout havin' a wedding picture with George Cwoony at a wax museum? Then he fainted," a solemn Asmus pronounced, all while her brother nodded, soberly confirming her story. "Right when George Cwoony was walkin' by. So Toth started cryin' to get his attention and I asked if I could use his cell phone t' call 911. And then George Cwoony helped us prop Daddy up against a fire hydrant after a doggy had peed on it and he called 911 for us, and we told him that he looks a lot like our Grand-papa and you say Daddy has a com-plex 'cause of it. I dunno if he liked that much, but he still gave us the French fries from his lunch while we waited for th' ambulance. Then he went back to work and Daddy woke up and we ran away before the ambulance could show up 'cause Daddy didn't wanna pay for it, and he told us he'd buy us ice cream if we promised never t' tell you any of that happened."

"…" Ciel lifted an eyebrow, momentarily startled by this deluge of potential blackmail— er, by this flood of information. A few seconds later, however, and the implications of his twins' tale began to settle in his mind. Biting his bottom lip in a fruitless attempt to keep from grinning, the nobleman coughed delicately and murmured: "…and yet, here you are. Telling me everything. You two _do_ know that devils are not allowed to lie, yes?"

"Yeah, well. He bought us frozen yogurt," Toth helpfully explained. "Not ice cream."

"Ah." That made it okay, then. Indeed, they _were_ Sebastian's children— deviant little creatures already adapt at sniffing out loopholes. The once-earl made a mental note of this, lest he later fall into such a trap, himself. But for now… Well. Winking at his precious babies, Ciel cleared his throat, trying to rid his voice of snickers before he next spoke.

"Hey, Sebastian," the demonling then called, cupping a hand to the side of his face so as to be properly heard in the kitchen. He waited until he was answered by a distracted "hm?" prompting him to continue. In his lap, the children giggled and sniggered, eyes bright with delight as their mother's smirk contorted, turning wolfish. "When you say that the noise was incredible, were you referring to the crowd… Or to the noises that came out of your mouth?"

A plate shattered; the sound of it echoed with the same crystalline clarity as the family's screeches of laughter. "What th—? You little imps— you _promised_!" Sebastian whined over the others' animated amusement, sticking his head around the corner to flash them all a dour pout. When his scowl did nothing but exacerbate their shrieks, he narrowed his eyes, growled, and stormed off shouting: "Oh— that's it! I'm making the lot of you sprouts and raw carrots and spam for supper!"

"S'okay," Asmus calmly rejoined, her wicked sneer straining for her ears. "We're still full from fries and yogurt."

"What? _Rgh_! Well, then— more for Ciel!"

"Still totally worth it," Ciel cackled, unrepentant, as he open his cell phone to text Uriel. Certainly the angel would find this little turn of events equally entertaining, considering his past with Sebastian. Hell, he'd likely want to swing by and poke fun at his old boyfriend personally. And maybe—if he picked up some take-out on his way over—Ciel would promise not to lock him in the bathroom, this time.

Or maybe he'd take a leaf out of his kids' book and do it anyway.

**XXX**


	51. Hourglass xxx CielSeba

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **Funny thing. Every time I chat with Alex Beoulve, we always seem to walk away with the same idea… Only I take the angst version, and Alex, the crack. XD It's a great set up we've got going on, lawlz. Anyway, this one is for you, bby. And I hope to finish the other fics I've promised you soon. 8D;

**Warnings: **Derp. Angsty derp. Flowery, angsty derp. Flowery, angsty, written-at-3-AM derp. Lemony CielSeba.

**XXX**

**Hourglass**

**XXX**

Outside, the rain is falling.

An English summer has descended upon the countryside, painting the faerie land anew in a fresh wash of wet monochrome. Mountainous plumes of navy and midnight have enveloped the unhappy heavens, frothing on the horizon like the spume of a witch's brew; the blanketing darkness has cast a spell of weariness, of lachrymose, over the world— a curse that only time and sunlight will wear away. Eventually.

Eventually.

But for now, the manor and its inhabitants can do little but endure this limbo of gray mists and cold breezes, huddled (like all other animals) inside of the pitiful shelters they've constructed. The moor's lonely wuthering echoes over the soulless grounds as bedraggled crows caw in empty eaves; the sightless statues in the garden glisten as if tear-glossed graves, lamenting the roses that are mercilessly beaten to death by the downpour: white-satin petals shattering, then scattering, every-which-way, battered about by fingers of rain. Mud and filth stains what had once been pristine and innocent. Mud and filth and hands and lips, and there is nothing on this estate that is "pristine" or "innocent" anymore.

The windows have been opened. Musk and sweat and sex and heat have layered atop one another, their remnants cleaving to stale air until it is too thick to breathe; it must be thinned, despite the risk the gale poses the carpet. And so the dew-dropped casement is begrudgingly cracked: creaking on hinges that sing like the sky. At first, the shy winds whisper as they creep over the transoms' gilded ledge, as if afraid they might be caught and punished for sneaking into the room. Now, having realized that they are welcome, they whistle and shriek as they charge through the aperture, eager to dance with the drapes. Luxurious swatches of maroon velvet undulate wildly in their wake, golden tassels tossed about in graceful spins and twirls. The rich hues of expensive fabrics darken all the more as liquid bullets shatter on the sill, but neither the sound nor the splatter of watery shrapnel is enough to frighten (or still) the chamber's inhabitants.

The rain pounds into the bedroom. And the butler is pounded into the bed. And the earl is pounding into his servant, and the frame and the mattress screech with the same demanding passion as the eager squall beyond: the wanton thunder groaning as deeply, as licentiously, as the coupling pair. Yes, when they roil, the deluge roils. When they sigh, the gusts sigh. When the devil's hips begin to bounce again, and the sweet slap of skin on skin fills the sensual silence with sinful sounds, the monsoon moans and flails and rams against the immoral house: enviously, dangerously angry.

The two pay the tempest little mind, despite its many seeming attempts to scare them, to mock them. Walls cannot talk, and neither can the winds that rage against them, despite the tattle-tale tenor of each scream, each howl. Nature _would_ condemn the unnatural, the pair supposes, no matter how clear they make their intentions. Regardless of how many years pay witness to their depravity. Snow storms, hurricanes, and hail; all manner of weather has taken its turn, plaguing them from season to season. The creature above (grinding, grunting, goring himself) has watched his master grow up in the afterglow of lightening: ethereal flashes of plasma and electricity that illuminate the face of a boy, of a young adult, of a man… Silver-gold highlights haloing a striking, ever-shifting silhouette.

Ephemeral. It is all so ephemeral.

And even now, things are changing. Time marches onward. Summer becomes autumn, showers becomes sunlight, a babe becomes a corpse. The eiderdown wrinkles and sighs as pallid fingers tangle in its rumpled softness, willowy digits twitching with the same contentment as a swaddled child's. But that is the only childlike thing about this human, now— the only childlike thing about their relations. Oh, it is haunting, really, how much the master has changed: like the seasons, like the weather, his existence is entirely transient. Even more so, perhaps, than the rest. Yes, time had offered to morph and to mold him, and he had willingly accepted the Hourglass's offer: allowed the falling sands to hone, to polish, to burnish him anew. A diamond in the rough, invited to ride the winds of change, and he had, he had: just as his butler rides him now, in a glassy-eyed haze of yearning and excitement. Of need. Such need.

Everything needs to change. That is the way of things. Simple, succinct. Only natural.

_As a servant of Phantomhive, it is only natural…_

The handsome earl chokes on a husky keen, regal voice cracking in his kiss-bruised throat. Crackling and crumbling, as if dried leaves or clay shrines. Like archaic monuments to a God long forgotten; like the mortal's fragile body, a sort of temple all its own: one that will someday erode into dust and ash. Into nothingness. Into another handful of Sand that the creature astride him will personally pour into that Hourglass— into Eternity—, before turning his immortal life on its head once more. (Restart.) And he will watch, helpless, as every last trace of his Master's essence vanishes amidst the sea of human rot: a mixture of bones and flesh that will be indistinguishable from any other.

Everything needs to change. And everything will change. The rains will stop, the world will rotate, his master will die, and he will regress from butler to beast, likely forgetting all of this in the process—his memories buffed blank by those same endless Sands. Buried alive and ground into oblivion. Fleeting. Life is so fleeting.

As is the weather. Already, the storm's fury has dulled, like a temper tantrum that has subsided into a session of soft sobbing. Beneath the butler, bucking hips are calming in kind, an arched back caving in like London Bridge as quiet whimpers and soothing endearments are carried away on baying breezes. Like the world outside the window, the earl and his servant are covered in wetness, now… But unlike the trees and the grasses, they cannot blame the inundating torrents. Pale pearls of moisture bead and glisten on the muscled ridges of their abdomens, the silken valley of the sheets…

"…? Sebastian…? Are you—?"

…and in the corner of the devil's eye, unwillingly dislodged by a bat of long lashes. Crystalline and tepid: a fluid unlike the others. The single droplet of saline rolls down the curve of the creature's angled cheek, then tumbles to dilute the mess upon his master's belly.

A moment. An instant—the Hourglass set upon its side. The human reaches out to touch his monster's face, confusion written upon his own. And oh, he is beautiful, and he is in love, and both transitory traits are reflected back upon himself in the vermillion mirror of the other's endless eyes. The whole of this—of _them_, of their world, both in and outside of these sullied quarters— is heartbreakingly ephemeral.

A moment. An instant.

And then it is over.

"Hm? Oh. Just a speck of rain, young master."

The sun is peeking through the clouds.

**XXX**


	52. Endear xxx Bicentennial

**Disclaimer: **LOLNOPE.

**Author's Note: **I've been getting Bicentennial-themed headcanons in my tumblr ask-box every so often; if one amuses me particularly, I'll write a ficlet about it. Here's one I did tonight. :3 (In about 10 minutes, so be gentle please, lawlz. XD; ) Thanks anon, for your submission! I love hearing about what you guys think, so if you feel so inclined, please keep them coming! :'D (My tumblr name is singacrossthemoon. :3)

**Submission: **I saw your reply to someone about nicknames and it made me wonder something. I haven't read all of the Bicentennial fics yet so sorry if I'm asking something that's alredy in there but I know Sebastian calls Ciel "Baby Bird", but does Ciel ever give Sebastian a nickname, like when it's just the two of them? Or if he HAD to give him a petname, what would it be? And does Sebastian like it?

**Warnings: **Part of the "Bicentennial" series—doesn't particularly matter where. XD SebaCiel.

**XXX**

**Endear**

**XXX**

"…" Notably started, Sebastian pulls away from his keening master in order to gawk dazedly down at him, the concern in his expression suggesting that the latter had just grown an extra head, or perhaps sprouted a mess of purple pustules. "_What _did you just call me?"

Trapped beneath his husband by strong arms and a bemused gaze, Ciel's brilliant blush melts from pink to scarlet, aroused to horrified. "I… um…" He clears his throat awkwardly. He already felt like a right fool for having said anything at all; this reaction isn't helping. "'Darling'…?"

"…" Sebastian slowly licks his lips, trying very hard to suppress a shudder. That just wasn't… no. Not right. Not right at all. "Um… Ciel," he then begins warily, offering his lover an empathetic, albeit still rather amused smile, "are— are you trying to be… romantic, perhaps…?"

"Oh, shut _up!_" the once-earl snaps— sounding much more like himself— as he glances to the far left and allows his cheeks to glow as vibrantly as their demonic eyes. "I just… Well, you have endearments for me… Grelle has pet names for everyone… Your parents have nicknames for you— Heaven help us, even Uriel does! But… even after all this time, I… don't. I don't have anything special to call you, I mean."

Looking rather guilty, Ciel turns his attention back upon his husband, reaching out to caress his temple. Still faintly baffled, Sebastian nevertheless looks touched as he slowly puts the pieces of his little one's puzzling behavior together. "Don't you want a special name of your own? Something… something I and I alone can use when speaking to you?"

At this, Sebastian smiles, his crimson eyes as warm as embers— shimmering with all manner of love and tenderness. "Baby bird," he then whispers, dipping low to brush affectionate lips against Ciel's ear— as if to make quite sure he hears and understands what he is about to say, "you have already given me the best and only names I could ever wish to have. Sebastian— the name of your first, and most loyal friend— and Phantomhive, the name of your family, of which I am now a part. Through both of these names, you have shaped me, blessed me, and honored me in more ways than I could have ever thought possible… Why would I wish to be called by anything other than that?"

"…I—" Ciel hesitates, swallows. Then he grins, features rosy with delight and gratification as he leans up to press a kiss to his beloved's mouth—

"Besides," Sebastian then tacks on in a much lighter tone, dodging Ciel's embrace just long enough to smirk and chuckle, "'Darling' makes me think of Grelle, and I really don't want her on my mind right now. If you know what I mea— _omph!_"

"Pft." Ciel snorts, mercilessly smacking his husband across the face with a pillow for ruining such a sweet moment with his stupidity. "Idiot."

That endearment, at least, feels natural.

**XXX**


	53. Radio Romance xxx Bicentennial

**Disclaimer: **Nope~

**Author's Note: **Another headcanon from an anon. :3 Written and edited in like 10 minutes… and just for the smiles. XD

**Submitted Headcanon: **_Bi headcannon in which Sebastian obsesses with the song Call Me Maybe by Carley Rae Jensen, which in turn annoys Ciel because Ciel can't understand why Sebastian would like the song since it says "Hey I just met you". As Sebastian sings the song to himself Ciel snaps and gives a speech about how no, Sebastian didn't just meet him, they met 200 years ago!_

**Warnings: **Fluff. SebaCiel. Part of the "Bicentennial" series, takes place after "666."

**XXX**

**Radio Romance**

**XXX**

"_Hey, I just met you_~"

"Sebastian. Sebastian, no."

"_And this is crazy!_"

"Sebastian, please. _Every time _this song comes on the radio, you— _eep!_"

"_But here's my number!_" Sebastian sang, abandoning his station in front of the stove in favor of sweeping Ciel into a playful embrace. The younger demon, for his part, snapped his husband with a glare— all but hanging from his once-butler's arms as he was spun around the kitchen, serenaded and made to dance some strange mutation of the waltz. "_So call me, maybe!_"

"Sebastian, this song is asinine," Ciel droned, trying to look disapproving as Sebastian laughed and grinned all the more widely, twirling them around the kitchen table. As their parents spun past their high-chairs, the 6-month old twins gurgled with approval— clapping their hands and cooing along. His family's obvious amusement was making it difficult to stay pouty, but Ciel did his best, anyway. (He had a reputation, after all.) "As happy as I am that you've gotten over your obsession with the Nyan Cat song, this one is hardly better," he protested weakly, absolutely _refusing_ to giggle when Sebastian nestled close and sang directly into his master's overly-sensitive ear, eliciting a squirm from him. "I— I don't understand why you insist on this charade every time this plays on the radio! I did not trade my soul for a _wish_— revenge is different—, or pennies and dimes for any sort of sexual favors… We did _not _just meet, neither of us gave out a number, and the only thing I 'called' was your name—! Ah!"

Ciel's rant was silenced by a well-timed dip— and a rather deep kiss— both of which filled the instrumental break quite nicely. When Sebastian pulled them back upright (Asmus and Toth shrieking happily all the while), he beamed, rosy eyes as soft as the breathless blush on his charge's flustered face.

"_Before you came into my life I missed you so bad, I missed you so bad, I missed you so, so bad_," Sebastian hummed, voice silken and sweet as he peppered a few more kisses against Ciel's forehead and temple. "_Before you came into my life I missed you so bad, and you should know that_…"

…ah.

Notably pink now, Ciel glanced demurely away as the song came to an end, hoping Sebastian didn't notice the way his hands lingered when it came time to separate. For as much as he protested against this quirky ritual… "…you could at least listen to the Alex Goot version of the song," he mumbled half-heartedly, resuming his post in front of the frying potatoes. "Since, you know, we played his songs at our wedding, and all…"

Still chortling merrily, Sebastian opened his mouth to respond to this—

_I don't want another pretty face, _the radio crooned, Carley Rae Jensen's hit melting into Jesse McCartney's. At the sound of the very first note, Sebastian— visibly ecstatic— gasped in glee.

No.

"_I don't want just anyone to hold!_" he trilled, as if in answer.

No—!

"_I don't want my love to go to waste!_"

"Nooo—!" Ciel cried (or, rather, laughed) as he was again pulled into his husband's arms and sashayed across the room.

"_I want you and your beautiful soul!_"

Needless to say, supper burned. (Good thing no one really needed it.)

**XXX**


	54. Stringy Things xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Author's Note:** Yesterday on tumblr I reblogged one of those "send me a prompt and I'll probably write a ficlet for it" posts. And—to my own surprise—you guys kept me busy for the rest of the night! Anyway, for the sake of keeping things organized, I thought I'd post the ficlets here, too… I hope you guys enjoy them! :D

**Warnings**: SebaCiel, derp. All of these ficlets were written and edited in about 10 minutes each, so if they suck, that'll be why. 8D

**XXX**

**Stringy Things**

**XXX**

**Prompt: Sebastian likes wearing thongs (and nothing else) around the house. Ciel outwardly disapproves, but secretly loves the view.**

Requested By: Anonymous

_(OW IT HURT WHEN I SNORTED)_

"Good _God_ man, what— what are you _wearing?"_ Ciel choked, a swallow of lukewarm tea lodging in his throat as his face turned the same color as his red velvet cake. 'What _aren't_ you wearing' might have been the easier question to answer, however, seeing as it only required a single word. 'Nothing.'

Well, almost nothing.

"Hm? Ah, I believe the young master is referring to my _fundoshi, _am I correct?"

Ciel responded with a dry glance. _Obviously,_ seeing as his devil was literally wearing nothing else to which he could refer. Dressed in little more than a scrap of cloth around his thin waist, Sebastian smiled benignly, as comfortable in his birthday suit as he was in the woolen one he normally wore about the house. "If it pleases," he then casually explained, "this was a gift from Mr. Tanaka— a traditional garb for hard work. He assures me it is an ensemble _bursting _with masculinity."

It certainly was. Bursting, all right. With… um, masculinity.

Trying very, very hard— _bad choice of words, Ciel!_— to focus his eyes onto anything butt— er, _but_— his servant, the earl grunted weakly, far too flustered to rebuke this cultural claim. "Just… just dust and get out of here," he grunted, dour, half-hiding his face behind a few leafs of risen parchment. He was going to have to have a talk with his steward, later. But for now… more important matters.

"Very good, my lord," the demon began with an obsequious bow. "I will do as— oh."

Sebastian cut himself off with a small sound of surprise as one of Ciel's quills went soaring across the room, flying in a manner it likely hadn't since being attached to a bird. The butler (rather appropriately) gave an owlish blink as he glanced behind him, seeking out where it'd landed.

"And pick that up," his master added lazily, attention again focused upon his handful of documents.

…at least until Sebastian bent over.

Luckily, the teen could hide his smirk behind his paperwork.

* * *

**Prompt: spaghetti ... i think you know what i'm talking about /wiggly eye brows**

Requested By: alexbeoulve

_(Bear with me, this begins as sort of an inside joke. XD; And, um… no offence meant. ^^;)_

"…if you were aiming for the table, I regret to inform you that you missed."

"Oops," Sebastian retorted— voice equally flat— as he and his master watched the platter of spaghetti slip from loose fingers and tumble into a lap covered in velvet britches. And now, noodles. "I suppose I will just have to clean that up. With my mouth," the devil added mechanically, getting onto his knees with the same fluidity as a robot whose joints had not been oiled in 3 decades. "Mm. Oh. You are so… saucy. And such… meaty balls."

"…those were bad puns, even for you," the earl rebuked, words and features equally deadpan. He sighed, then, giving his nails a once-over before regarding his butler's bobbing head. (The latter was currently trying to use a noodle-lasso to rope his charge's nether regions. Like a cowboy. "So I can ride that mount later," he declared tonelessly, looking as though he wanted to impale himself on one of his own attack-forks.) Ciel groaned— out of exasperation— and dragged a hand down his face.

"The Kuroshitsuji kink meme* sure has hit a new low," he then sighed, closing his eyes in lamentation.

Sebastian made a vague noise of agreement in the back of his throat. "Perhaps," he murmured, giving his master's slacks a half-hearted lick. "But it could always be worse**."

(Originally, these lines lead to the following links:

***** http(colon slash-slash) blackbutlerkink. livejournal(dot com)(slash) ?thread(equals)166511(pound)t166511**  
**** http(colon slash-slash) blackbutlerkink. livejournal(dot com)(slash) ?thread(equals)166767(pound)t166767)

* * *

**Prompt: A romantic moment between Sebastian and Ciel is interrupted in the most ridiculous way possible~**

Requested By: chocolatemoosey

"_Young master_," the impertinent butler husked, his silken voice impassioned and breathless as wicked lips skimmed over the boy-earl's throat, pausing to suckle at the junction of a delicate neck and an elegant shoulder. Sebastian could feel the life-blood thrumming through his tamer's sweet veins, spiraling lower, heating the pliant body beneath him— warm flesh growing white-hot as flames erupted in grinding loi—

And then the roof caved in from an infestation of termites, effectively squishing both dead.

**XXX**


	55. Snapshots xxx Bicentennial

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **As I said before—yesterday on tumblr, I reblogged one of those "send me a prompt and I'll probably write a ficlet for it" posts. I was flabbergast by how many requests I had for more Bi/Asmus and Toth! In fact, I still have a number of adorable prompts waiting in my tumblr inbox… I do hope to get to them later. But for now, please enjoy these brief little "Bicentennial" snippets, as requested by readers. :3

**Warnings: **SebaCiel, OCs, part of the "Bicentennial" series, all post-"666." All of these ficlets were written and edited in about 10 minutes each, so if they suck, that'll be why. 8D (I'd like to write some of these _properly_, at some point...)

**XXX**

**Snapshots**

**XXX**

**Prompt: Ciel gets territorial over his babies in birdie form.**

Requested By: Anonymous

_(Wow, this one is kinda lame, sorry. :C AND IT WAS SUCH A CUTE IDEA, TOO. orz I'll have to try and do it justice later. 8D;)_

At first, the park authorities tried to do something about it.

They assumed the problem was caused by a small family of barn swallows— notoriously violent little buggers— who'd made a home in the pavilion, and felt threatened by the families who spent time at the playground. It wasn't an unreasonable guess, all things considered. But upon closer inspection from all parties involved (the curious kids, their concerned mothers, the groundskeepers who were worried about getting sued), it was discovered that the bird that kept nosediving others away from the swing-set was not a barn swallow at all.

It was a crow.

One of three crows, rather. An adult, and two fuzzy babies, the latter of which were more prone to hopping than flying. Upon their discovery, many of the younger kids at the park had squealed and attempted to touch them— only to have their fingers nearly pecked off by the fuming mother-crow.

"Well, mamas are mamas," an ornithological specialist (that guy who looked like Santa with a pair of binoculars who watched the birds from 2 to 4 every Saturday) had commented with an air of good humor. "And crows are very smart. Maybe it'd just be best to leave them alone… Until her hatchlings grow up, anyway."

"_Ca-caw_," the crow had added, as if in agreement.

At first, some of the more frequent visitors to the playground had protested, complaining that this wasn't fair— that this was _ dangerous_— that really, they should just call animal control and be done with it… But the kids (who noticed these things) said they didn't mind, particularly, because the crows only made a ruckus on Mondays through Fridays from 4 until 5:30, after which they all "suddenly vanished" (…as if to be replaced by two dark-haired toddlers and some boy who might be their brother, the lot of whom always seemed to show up _exactly_ where the birds had been. But the adults never listened to that nonsense).

In any case, the kids added, they didn't mind sharing with the crows. Sharing was caring, and it was fun to see the two fuzzy fledglings sit atop the swings and flap their bitty wings, their mama plucking at the chains with scaly feet— making the seat wobble in the wake of pseudo-pushes. It was fun, like something seen on the Discovery Channel. Sometimes, they would gather around and cheer the babies on. And sometimes, the mama crow would even allow someone to get close enough to make the swings rattle and shake… and the fledglings would squeak and flap harder, and leap off their swing with help of that momentum.

Usually, they would then land in the sand with a plop, and the children would applaud their attempt, and the process would continue.

But one day, when the little ones went soaring— they actually took flight.

And then all three flew away.

* * *

**Prompt: Ciel and Sebastian take Asmus and Toth on a family outing to the amusement park \8'D/**

Requested By: Anonymous

"This certainly brings back memories…"

That was putting it rather mildly. Sebastian chuckled in agreement as he glanced down at his musing husband: smile soft with affection and nostalgia as he watched Ciel glance slowly around the familiar vestibule. The fountain was just as tacky as it'd always been, and the ticket stands as garishly painted; in the distance, there were roller coasters and psychedelic game booths, all of which were glistening in the first frosts of early autumn.

"It almost feels like… this is where it all began," the once-butler murmured, readjusting his hold on the small bundle in his arms. Wrapped in many fuzzy layers of magenta, the 6-month-old graced her father with a pink-gum yawn and nestled closer into his warmth. In Ciel's careful embrace, a blue-clad Toth was doing much the same— squirming and half-asleep. Dressed as they were, the twins were more winter clothing than they were children. (That would certainly make diaper changing a hassle…)

"I'm sorry we couldn't come when it was still warm," Sebastian sighed, even as he glanced sheepishly towards the nearby fountain. Noticing this, Ciel was quick to usher his whole family towards the landmark, as well as to wordlessly help his once-butler ease onto the ledge. In some twisted way, it was almost kind of funny— to see Sebastian in his jeans again, and his leather jacket, and his fingerless gloves, looking for all the world like an attractive young adult… but moving like a grandmother who'd just had her hip replaced.

The once-earl smiled weakly, pressing a kiss to his lover's temple as he sat down beside him.

"Well, you didn't want to come in your wheelchair," the fledgling reminded with a chuckle, readjusting the diaper bag he'd looped around his shoulder. Somewhere, in the very, very back of his mind, Ciel wondered what they looked like to the other park guests— what lies the mortals would tell themselves to explain these two kids with kids of their own. (Silly, ignorant humans. Ah well.) "You were very insistent, as I recall. Something about not wanting to miss out on the Ferris wheel."

Another half-grin, beautiful in its embarrassment. "I am a man of priorities, baby bird."

"_Obviously._ But it's just as well," Ciel tacked on in teasing afterthought, his grin widening by teeth as he glanced back towards the baby he was bouncing. "That we had to wait until autumn, I mean. After all… we finally found a good use for them, didn't we?"

Laughing, the not-boy tugged a bit on little Toth's hat— loose, furry, and sporting googly eyes. Asmus was wearing one herself, though red and fuzzy. Cookie Monster and Elmo, finally at home on heads again.

_How fast time flies…_

As his husband giggled, and his children wriggled, Sebastian's chapped lips curled into a breathtaking smile— scarlet gaze as warm and soft as the silly caps his offspring wore. "…I love you, Ciel," the devil heard himself whispering— not quite sure where the confession came from, all of a sudden, but knowing it had never been more true than it was at that moment. "I love all three of you. So much…"

Ciel flushed, his answer reflected in his own bright eyes.

"…but you're still not going to let me get a corn dog, are you?"

"Not on your life."

* * *

**Prompt: Explain the trip to the Corn Palace with the Spears! XD**

Requested By: Anonymous

"You might not want to touch that," Sebastian informed Will cheerfully, stopping his reaper-friend mid-reach. The bespectacled immortal lifted his brow as the devil smirked, turned the key in his ignition, and tossed the "souvenir" corn cob from the front seat to the back. "It got a bit dirty."

"…"

For a long while, Will said nothing in response to this: merely slipped into the demon's car, buckled his seat-belt, and allowed about 20 miles of "South Dakota scenery" (in this case, read as "more corn") to pass by the windows.

Then—

"…you and the brat ripped that off of the Corn Palace's wall and used it as a dildo, didn't you?" the reaper intoned flatly, his expression as dull and disgusted as Sebastian's was cheerful and animated.

"Oh, that's not _all _we did," Sebastian sang in response, his expression absolutely _wicked _in its amusement. "After we got our hands on the cob, we also—"

And then William blacked out. For the entire length of the next 22 and a half minute story, conveniently. Or so he chose to tell anyone who bothered to ask.

* * *

**Prompt: Ciel spending quality time with one or both of his babies~ (And if you can sneak a Disney movie in there, that would be awesome as well, but you don't have to. XD)**

Requested By: mukkufan

_(If it helps, I imagine they sing the "working song" from Enchanted as they do… what they do. XD; DOES THAT MAKE IT DISNEY ENOUGH?)_

It was Daddy/Daughter Day at the Phantomhive house… Which by default meant it was also Mother/Son Day, because that's just how the family demographic broke down. So when Sebastian and Asmus ducked through the door with a wave and a promise to bring back waffles from Wendell's, Ciel and Toth were left to stare at one another over bowls of cereal, each still dressed in their footie pajamas.

"…so, what would you like to do?" the once-earl asked the younger of his two children, not surprised when he was answered by a vague shrug. Toth had never been particularly vocal, and being separated from his sister only exacerbated that. Ciel knew not to take it personally. (Really, it would have been stupid to take it personally, since Toth's sobriety hadn't been inherited from _Sebastian.)_ "Well, then…" the not-boy continued after a long moment, a deviant little smirk crawling onto his face. "The usual?"

"…" A pause. Toth glanced up at this rather cryptic offer, blinking once, slowly… Then he grinned, nodding and snickering.

"Okay." Ciel clapped his hands together; as one, the pj-clad pair scrambled from their seats, knowing they had to work quickly, swiftly. Efficiently. But then, that was what bonding was all about. "You grab your father's Clooney movies, and I'll get my spare Disney DVDs. We'll see how many we can switch out _this _time before they get back."

* * *

**Prompt: Maybe some cuteness between the children? Please, if you maybe could?**

Requested By: keela1221

"~~~!" Wholly alarmed, Toth floundered and flailed: lithe little body twisting left and right, back and forth, as his eyes frantically searched for band-aids, or moist towels, or soap. Unsurprisingly, he could find none of those things on the side of the street; within a few moments, he was reduced to hand-wringing and frantic gulping.

_Asmus…_

His twin, meanwhile, was squirming as well— but due to pain, rather than panic. Biting hard on her bottom lip, Asmus rocked herself back and forth, clutching her knee and wordlessly sobbing. Pearly tears leaked from her clamped eyes; blood oozed from a jagged scrape. Both fluids landed in tiny patches and puddles beside them on the pavement, glinting in the sun like the metal of the dinged and discarded scooter. Toth privately wished to kick the stupid toy that had dared to hurt his twin, but knew such displays wouldn't do them any good, now.

Crouching and uncertain, the four-year-old swallowed thickly, his dark eyes soft with empathy. Asmus' injury sent phantom aches down his own limbs… But that was nothing in comparison to the agony his heart was in while watching her cry. There was nothing Toth hated as much as seeing his big, strong, brave older sister hurting…

He had to do something. But what? What would Mama do? Or Daddy? What would Asmus do when he used to hurt himself?

…oh yes.

"—-!" Flinching faintly, the young girl gasped in mild surprise as her brother dipped gracelessly forward, brushing his lips gingerly to her bruising knee. The kiss was a light one, and careful to avoid any raw or tender skin. It did not sting. Instead, it felt warm. Comforting. As he pulled away, Toth offered Asmus a beautiful beam, reaching out to pat her head affectionately.

_It'll be okay_.

"…" With one last snuffle, his sister smiled. "Thanks, Toth."

**XXX**


	56. Boxing xxx SebaCiel

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **I wrote this AGES ago. Seriously. AGES. For Alex, in a sneaky attempt to get her to acknowledge my existence, back before we were friends. I dunno why I never got around to posting it here… It's been on tumblr for ages. Like I've mentioned a few times. Oh well… Here it is now!

**Warnings: **SebaCiel. Kuro II references. Written totally in response to a post Alex made, daring someone to write about Sebastian and Ciel trapped in a box. You can see her art and challenge (and my response) here: _**http (colon) (double backslash) ******__alexbeoulve .tumblr. com_(slash) post (slash) 20865639418

**XXX**

**Boxing**

**XXX**

"How does it feel, then?" Ciel taunted snidely, sneering at his butler as said servant squirmed and shifted. The latter's shoulders were scraping against the locked lid of the wooden crate; the angle of his head made his neck look broken. Not that his master cared. After all of the contortion and torture that Sebastian had put his own body through, one or two cracked vertebrae seemed the least the devil could suffer. That, and a good blow to his pride. "It's not much fun, is it? Being stuffed inside these blasted boxes all of the time."

Sebastian grunted through grit teeth, brow furrowing as his right eye gave a tic. "My lord," he said— as smoothly as he was able, "you are being unfair. You were not conscious during your stint in that first trunk, and the second was decidedly more spacious than this. And neither did I force you to _share _that space with another," he tacked on, voice pointed, as if questioning Ciel's decision to sit in this box with him. It did seem a rather funny thing to do, if he hated being in trunks as much as he claimed.

In return, the earl snorted. "I couldn't very well watch your agony from_ beyond_, now, could I? I'm not able to see through wood. In any case," he pressed on with a regal toss of his hair— or a shift of his head, as it were; there wasn't much room for hair-tossing, here—, "You're not in any position to tell me what is or isn't fair."

"I am not in a position to do much of _anything_, as is," Sebastian agreed wryly, growling as his torso gave another unpleasant ache. The strain of the lid— its locks fortified by the layers of cement that the crate had been slathered in ("Just enough to make escape difficult, not impossible;" oh, that little brat)— was forcing the demon's body to sink lower and lower, until certain parts of his anatomy had lined up with his master's. In turn, Ciel's legs were forced to reposition themselves, and fill whatever new spaces they could. Before long, his lithe limbs had wrapped themselves firmly around the demon's lower back, and two sets of elbows were bracing themselves against the crease of the corners.

"…no." The young nobleman leveled his servant a glower, features pinched in blatant warning, despite his growing blush and heady gaze. No, this was a punishment. No fun was allowed. He was not in the mood for fun. (But was it getting hotter in here, or…? Dammit…) "Don't even think about it."

A sultry chortle; a shift of clothed hips. "But if I cannot escape through the lid, it seems only natural I should be forced to pound you through the sides," Sebastian retorted sweetly, his own expression growing lighter as the other's darkened. Because _yes_. Finally. There it was— the key. Not the key to the outside, nor the key to the box. But the key to victory. To Ciel's undoing. (Or, at least, the undoing of Ciel's trousers.)

After all, though they weren't in a position to do much of anything, they could, at least, do each other. And that, for Sebastian, was enough.

…to bring the walls down.

**XXX**


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